


Whetstone

by playwithdinos



Series: Whetstone Verse [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Pastry School, Canonical Character Death, F/F, F/M, Female Lavellan/Sera (past), Female Lavellan/Solas (past) - Freeform, Multi, No Trespasser Spoilers, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Polyamory, Text Message chapters, Text messaging, Threesome - F/F/F, implied/referenced abuse (past)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-03-20 05:49:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 50
Words: 149,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3639087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playwithdinos/pseuds/playwithdinos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris works as a dishwasher at a Dalish restaurant with his only friend and room mate, Aevalle Lavellan. One day, Lavellan shows Fenris an old magazine with Orlesian cakes on the cover, flowers made from pulled sugar, and she has the suggestion of a better life for them both if he's willing to give it a shot. She knows a dwarf who makes this Fenris into someone other than who he is, someone who can apply for a bank account and to Kirkwall Culinary Institute. Fenris has no real passion for cooking but he’s gotten this far with her, and he will follow her still. Even if her new friends are all very strange, especially the woman everyone just calls "Hawke."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Touch of Delicacy

In her mind the fire is still burning, and even in the rain that pounds down on the highway her hand pulses with the heat of it. It’s clutched against her jacket to protect it from the rain, but even that is soaked through now, and her skin feels waterlogged, wrinkled and cold and hot all at the same time. She stumbles, and she has to catch herself with her shoulder—the pavement is hard, her cry of pain little more than a whimper. Falling Is better in the woods, where the ground is soft, but she has to cross the bridge before she can walk past the tree line again. Out of sight.

                There are headlights behind her, coming around the corner. She gets up. Maybe they will just think she’s drunk, maybe they won’t pull over it’s not like her thumb is up or anything—

                She is trying to move too fast. She stumbles again, and catches herself against the railing. The car passes her, and for a heartbeat she thanks whatever gods got her into this mess, but she can see the reflection of the turn signal, hear the car pulling over. The door slams, but she can’t get up—her instincts always choose fight but her body is wracked with a shaking that won’t stop, her hand burns and she’s cold and hot all at the same time, and she falls the rest of the way to the ground. The rainwater on the pavement tastes like blood.

                She’s sure someone is calling to her, but she only hears it so far away—just like she feels the hands hoisting her up, arms carrying her, placing her in the car. The car smells like old books and the plants of her childhood, and she cries, but the man who holds her is kind, and his voice carries a cadence that is familiar, safe.

                “I can’t go to a hospital,” she begs as he starts driving. “They’ll find me.”

                He is kind enough to hush her. He takes her to a motel that reeks of pot and sex, but there are two beds and he only takes her clothes off because she tries in the bathroom, alone, but in its buzzing yellow light she can see the mess made of her hand and everything comes out of her. He comes in to hold her hair while she crouches over the toilet, shaking. He wipes her face with a cloth and it’s the first time she sees him clearly. Eyes like storm clouds, bald, he is broader of shoulder than the elves of her clan, but his smile when he declares her clean is warm and familial, and she is not frightened of him.

                When she is dressed again, in some kakis and an elven knit sweater that smells of cedar and a camp fire, he sits her on the bed and asks if she can keep a secret. She can only nod, and when he takes her battered hand in his they begin to glow.

               

Fenris does not like the apartment. Aevalle doesn’t either, and he knows it because her mouth twists down for the whole showing, and she hesitates before she hands the landlady their cheque. In the late summer heat, she has abandoned her usual fingerless gloves for a lace cuff on her left hand only, cut from the same ratted dress she used to make the lace bandana she wears about her neck. Perhaps she thought a touch of delicacy would make them look more presentable, but they’re both wearing thin hoodies she had bought from a thrift store with the arms cut off, her cut offs are short enough for the pockets to hang out, his skinny jeans don’t fit quite right, and even their sandals feel oppressive. Never mind that she has half her head shaved, and piercings all along her right eyebrow and ear, and the markings up and down his skin that he can’t hide.

                “I don’t normally take couples,” the landlady says.

                “We’re cousins,” she asserts.

                Fenris doesn’t think they look it—her copper skin is far darker than his, her hair is black and her Dalish accent is as thick as his Tevene. But it’s a lie that has kept people from looking too closely at his own markings, though he feels them itch when the landlady looks between them, frowning. Their eyes are both green, and to the average human that’s enough of a resemblance, apparently.

                “I can’t believe you took it,” he says later when they sit at a fast food place, sharing a child’s meal and a tap water between them.

                “I can’t believe she took us,” she says before popping a chicken nugget in her mouth. She put her hood up when the old human across the room scowled at her _vallaslin_ , and Fenris put his up in solidarity at her embarrassed frown, but in hindsight he thinks it makes them look like gang members.

                “The place was filthy,” Fenris asserts, cutting their last chicken nugget in half with a plastic fork and knife.

                “Nothing a little vinegar and water can’t handle. At least she didn’t call us rabbits.”

                “I am glad she meets the minimum requirement for being a decent person.”

                “ _Lethallin_ ,” she says. She is smiling. “It’s going to work out. I promise.”

                He eats his half of the chicken nugget, trying to avoid making a face. He hates these things, but they’re easier to split than a burger.

                It will be nice, he thinks, to know where they will be sleeping. Things have been rough since they were kicked out of their old place. Neither of them were happy going back to huddling in his car at night, or in whatever foreclosed home they can break into.

                “Almost forgot,” she says, digging through her backpack. “I don’t have cake or anything, but, Happy Birthday!”

                He wants to tell her for the hundredth time that, one, he doesn’t remember his birthday, and two, he thought Dalish don’t celebrate birthdays, but she pulls something worn and leather out of her bag and gives it to him, beaming.

                “I watched a million videos online,” she said. “Do you like it?”

                He unrolls the knife roll she has given him, feeling a small smile spread across his features. It has pockets and compartments and places to slip his knives into, meticulously sewn with that delicate, definitively Dalish stitching pattern she uses on everything.

                “Where did you...?”

                “Thrift store,” she says, beaming. “Double-extra-large leather jacket, best twenty bucks I’ve ever spent. Hopefully everything fits snug, I spent so much time on forums before someone in second year was kind enough to measure their knives for me.”

                He rolls it back up and ties it, gingerly. “Aevalle,” he says.

                “Speechless? You must really like it.” She stands only to grab an empty fountain pop container off the table next to them. She holds it up, grinning. “To the future,” she says.

                “I would not drink out of that.”

                “Fenris!”

                He laughs and he raises their empty cup of water, and the paper cups make a dull noise when they touch.

                They spend the rest of the day running errands, meticulously crossing off lists of whatever doesn’t come in their toolkits from the school—her digital scale is on sale, so they use what’s left to buy an ice cream cone and share it in the park, lounging in the shade with their sandals kicked off and their toes curling in the grass. For once no one sends them a second glance, and when the ice cream is finished they sit in comfortable silence, sharing a set of earbuds connected to Aevalle’s phone, each of them reading a book they’d gotten at yard sales. Fenris doesn’t notice she’s fallen asleep until she’s slumped onto his shoulder, he’s so concentrated, his mouth moving to form the words ever so slightly as he reads.

 

Orientation is stressful and Fenris aggressively does not make friends, probably because Aevalle told him to when they parted that morning. He finishes the day with the cardboard box with his knives in it tucked under his arm, his whites and hat shoved into his backpack and frowning at the messages on his phone.

-{ How is Orientation?

-{ Did you make any friends?

-{ :D

-{ I’ll wait for you, text when you’re done

                -{ where r u?

-{ Hanged Man, it’s across the street from where you parked

-{ Come meet us!

                -{ us?

-{ We’re going to order nachos! Hurry up!

                _What happened to lying low_ , he wants to text her, but he does not like the idea of her being at a bar with strangers so instead he stuffs his phone in his back pocket with a sigh.

                The Hanged Man seems like one of those places that is only still afloat because it’s right next to Kirkwall Culinary Campus—seedy simply doesn’t cut it. The walls are filthy, the tables are filthy, and Fenris counts four health code violations before he’s even in the door. The place is crawling with students, some of them Fenris recognises, and since they’re mostly humans Fenris can’t see around them to figure out where Lavellan might be. He’s about to text her when he sees a waitress with a number of beers and two waters balanced on her tray, and he follows her on a whim. His sandals are sticking to the floor as he walks and the sound makes his lip curl with disgust.

                Sure enough, there she is, crammed into a booth with an elf—Dalish with far more elaborate _vallaslin_ than Aevalle’s—a beardless Dwarf with a v-neck that shows an awful lot of chest hair, and two humans—a woman who is making them all take a selfie with her and a Tevinter man who looks like he’s trying to seduce the phone’s camera. The sight of him makes Fenris want to bolt, but Lavellan laughs at something he says and he hesitates, his fingers going for the phone in his back pocket.

                “ _Lethallin!_ ” Aevalle calls when she sees him, waving with a lace-adorned hand, and he has to come join them. He sits in the empty seat next to Aevalle, across from the human woman, ignoring the stares from around the bar and fighting the urge to pull his hood up.

                “Everyone,” she says, “this is my cousin Fenris. Fenris, meet Merrill, Varric, Dorian and Hawke.”

                _Who names their child Hawke_? Fenris wonders. “A pleasure,” he says instead, glancing between Lavellan and Dorian. She gives a small shrug and that’s the only explanation Fenris is getting.

                “So,” Hawke is saying, “Aevalle was telling us you’re in the cooking program?” She is looking at him very strangely, but Fenris is too distracted by Dorian—sitting next to Lavellan hasn’t he told her what he went through doesn’t she know?

                “Yes,” he says after Lavellan kicks his leg.

                The dwarf smirks. “Are you always this talkative, Broody?”

                “I am not—”

                “ _Lethallin_ ,” Lavellan says with a smile, and Fenris clamps his mouth shut. “We had a late night at the restaurant last night,” she explains, “we’re both a little tired.”

                “Where do you work?” Merrill asks.

                “Nowhere special,” Fenris answers.

                Lavellan tries to kick him again, but he moves his feet so she can’t reach.

                “It’s a Dalish hole in the wall,” Lavellan answers, but he is grateful that she does not specify more.

                “Sounds delightful,” Dorian says, dryly. “I imagine you’re their best server, Fenris.”

                Fenris hates him.

                “I wash dishes,” he answers, his tone clipped.

                “Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf,” Hawke interrupts, and when Fenris glances her way she’s looking at him intensely, leaning forward in her seat and running her finger up and down her beer glass, very slowly. She takes a swig while he watches, her eyes never leaving his.

                He surprises himself by laughing a little. He tries to cover it with a cough.

                Her eyes are dark and gleaming with mischief, and the slight smile on her face is wicked. He forgets everything about Dorian at a glimpse of her tongue running along her bottom lip to catch a trace of the beer that lingers there.

                “My family has a cabin out on the coast. I’m heading out tomorrow for the weekend,” Hawke continues, putting her glass down. Her grin is excitable now, and she slaps the table hard enough that Fenris thinks the glasses jump. “You guys should come! We can kick back and relax before school starts.”

                Fenris spares a glance at Aevalle. He knows even before he looks that her eyes have just lit up, that she is already in the forests up the hill, her bow in hand.

                She still looks at him, as if for permission. He knows she won’t go without him.

                “The restaurant is closed for the festival,” Fenris says. “For the whole week.”

                “Elgar’nan,” Merrill says quietly, “is it Andruil’s Hunt again? You won’t be visiting your clan?”

                Aevalle scratches the back of her neck. “They’re a ways away,” she says. Because Fenris knows her, he can hear the slight falter in her voice as she speaks.

                But Merrill smiles, and she reaches across the table to hold Lavellan’s hand. “I would love to honour Andruil with you, _lethallan_ ,” she says, with a weight that makes Fenris wonder how the hell they became so close so quickly. Is it a Dalish thing? He continues to be baffled by Aevalle’s inclination towards making friends.

                “And that means…?” Dorian asks, one eyebrow raised.

                Aevalle tosses her hair with a laugh. “It means a lot of hunting and fishing,” she tells them. “Sorry, no naked dancing in the moonlight.”

                “That’s for Ghillan’an,” Merrill says with a sly smile and a faint blush that makes Fenris wonder if she’s actually serious.

                Varric grins. “What, no sacrificing babies or murdering innocent passers-by? You mean to tell me that everything I’ve heard about the Dalish is a lie?”

                Fenris scowls and Aevalle laughs.

                “So, presumably we get to partake in the delicious fruits of your efforts?” Hawke says with a grin.

 

They pick up Merrill on the way out of town at the crack of dawn, and she hands each of them a warm bun filled with pork and a sweet and spicy sauce. The filling is not unlike some of the stews served at the restaurant, thickened, and the smell makes Aevalle’s eyes light up. Fenris and Aevalle have skipped breakfast, and they devour theirs before they are even down the street, and Merrill hands them each another happily. For an hour she and Aevalle talk of nothing else but what they hope Aevalle will catch, and the ways it all might be prepared. Merrill shows Aevalle a dozen jars full of things Fenris doesn’t look at, being too busy driving, but Aevalle opens them all and sticks a fingerful in his mouth for him to taste.

                The radio in Fenris’ very beat up car is long fried, so Aevalle sings or hums almost constantly when conversation begins to die down. She plays songs on her phone without the headphones plugged in, and she goads Merrill and Fenris both until they sing along with her, though Fenris makes a show of rolling his eyes when he finally relents.

               _You need to know before we go,_ Aevalle told him. _Merrill’s a mage. She used to be First to Keeper of Clan Sabrae. If you don’t want to go, I’ll understand_.

                He almost said no. But Hawke sent him a text that night that made him blush all the way to the tips of his ears. So here he is, driving an apostate and his only friend out into the wilderness to celebrate the Dalish Goddess of the Hunt. At least the apostate makes a decent breakfast.

                Hawke’s family “cabin” is nothing like Fenris expects it to be—Aevalle asks him for the third time if they have the correct address before Merrill gets out of the car and presses the button on the intercom. After a brief conversation the gates open, Merrill gets back in and they drive up the long, winding road through the woods. Eventually they arrive at a large white house with ivy-covered trellises, a white-picket fence and a number of cars parked out front. It’s the kind of house that someone with a lot of money has and Merrill wonders aloud how many times her apartment would fit into it.

                A large mabari comes running when they pull up, Hawke running shortly behind it. She’s wearing a red bikini, and Fenris thinks she strikes an odd pose when she sees him get out of the car.

                “You made it!” she says. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she adds, “Did you bring any food? We totally forgot.”

                “How do you forget to bring food?” Fenris asks before he can stop himself.

                “Well okay we brought food, but it was all junk food for the road and Barkspawn ate it all and then he threw up all over the hot dogs. So.”

                Merrill laughs, as if Hawke was recounting something that actually made any semblance of sense. “Oh Hawke.”

                Aevalle, bent over and scratching the mabari’s ears, says, “You named your dog Barkspawn?”

                “Yes I did.”

                She actually looks proud, Fenris thinks. This woman was responsible for naming a living thing and she chose a terrible pun. He finds himself resisting the urge to get back in the car and head home.

                A tall and broad shouldered human Fenris does not know comes around the corner. He takes one look at Fenris, standing there with his arms crossed, and Aevalle with her head half-shaved and piercings on her eyebrow and ears and he says, “Who are these thugs?”

                “Carver!” Hawke snaps, and she whirls on him in the blink of an eye, and she has him by the ear and she is giving him an extensive lecture. Fenris can only make out snatches of it, and it culminates in “for once in your miserable life could you be nice to another living creature,” before she lets him go. He rubs his ear and glares sullenly at Fenris.

                “That looks painful,” Merrill says just as Carver opens his mouth. The human looks at her and seems to forget whatever he plans on saying.

                “Close your mouth, Junior, you’re catching flies,” Varric says as he saunters up. He’s wearing red swim trunks and a pair of aviators, and Fenris has to resist the urge to stare at all of his chest hair—there’s an awful lot of it. “Broody, Daisy, Bluebird, glad you could make it. You brought grub, right? I’ll trade you beer for a sandwich at this point.”

                 “Aevalle,” Dorian calls as he comes around from the back of the house. “My darling Aevalle. Please tell me you’re the bastion of good sense I know you to be and you remembered we actually have to eat meals like regular people.”

                She laughs and they embrace. Fenris tries not to show how nervous the Tevinter man is making him, but he just winds up scowling instead.

                Dorian notices this, and he gives Fenris the most infuriating smirk. “And I see you haven’t told your cousin where my particular preferences lie. It’s adorable how murderous he looks right now.”

                Aevalle smacks his bare back hard enough for the slap to echo a little. Dorian winces. “Don’t tease him,” she scolds.

                Aevalle and Fenris get their bags out of the car, and when the trunk is empty Aevalle starts to mess around with the far corner, under the carpeting.

                “Nobody brought food?” Carver asks, looking at the few bags the elves have brought with them.

                “There we go,” Aevalle says as she lifts the false bottom from the trunk. She pulls out her bow and checks it over for any damage it could possibly have sustained from the car trip. She slips it over one arm and pulls out her arrow sling, then a thermos that Fenris knows is full of scraps from the restaurant.

                “Don’t be silly,” Merrill scolds Carver as she drops her heavy bag full of jars into his arms. “It’s Andruil’s Hunt.”

                “Keep an eye out for wolves. And bears,” Fenris warns Aevalle.

                She grins at him. “Remind me again, _lethallin_ —”

                He scowls as he remembers precisely what she is about to tease him for. “If you do not leave soon everyone here will certainly starve to death.” He does not want a group of strangers to know that story. Especially Hawke.

                With a wink she jogs off into the trees, her bare feet making no sound on the forest floor.

                “This hunter-gatherer nonsense is all very charming and idyllic,” says Dorian as she vanishes, “but I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

                Fenris sighs.

                The beach is a short walk down the hill from the house, and Hawke follows Fenris around with a bucket while he digs up clams as big as his fist from under the sand. The dog follows them and sometimes helps dig, but mostly turns up little more than an old bone. No matter how much distance he puts between them, he can hear Dorian and Carver arguing how to properly use a fishing pole, and Varric making helpful interjections. When the tide is at its lowest Fenris cracks barnacles off a massive rock that juts out of the water, and Hawke finally breaks her silence.

                “So, Fenris,” she says.

                Fenris has taken off his shirt in the heat of the day, and he can feel her eyes tracing up the markings on his body. He tries not to tense up at the attention.

                “Yes?”

                “Aevalle says you’re cousins, but you don’t seem Dalish.”

                “I am not.”

                She waits for further clarification. He sighs.

                “Her father grew up in Kirkwall.”

                “Oh,” Hawke says. “Cool.”

                He continues his work for a time.

                “But you didn’t.”

                “I did not what?”

                “Grow up in Kirkwall. I think I would notice if the elves around here sounded like you.”

                There’s a _tone_ in her voice and Fenris misses the barnacle he is trying to hit with the rock in his hand. His cheeks are warm and he bites his lip. He glances at her to see if she noticed.

                She has a small smirk. She’s noticed.

                “So, you seem to be pretty proficient at the hunter-gatherer thing for someone who’s not Dalish.”

                “The Dalish are the only elves capable of living off the earth?”

                “No,” she says. “But I’m feeling pretty well provided for.” She holds up the bucket and waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

                He finds himself smiling. “You are a strange woman,” he tells her.

                “Good strange or bad strange?”

                He does not answer, but he is still smiling. “I lived in Seheron for a time,” he told her.

                “Shit,” she says. “Like, with the Qunari?”

                “With the fog warriors.” Tide is coming up around their feet, so he drops the rock into the surf and begins to walk back up the beach. He takes the bucket from Hawke so she can have a break, and their hands just touch when it is passed between them.

                “That’s… wow.”

                Fenris can’t help a smirk. “I have a feeling you are not frequently rendered speechless.”

                “So you fought the Qunari? With guns and shit?”

                He chuckles. “Among other things, yes.”              

                “Shit,” she says again. She is looking him up and down again. “So, the tattoos, are they a fog warrior thing?”

                He feels himself flinch.

                “Oh shit. Sorry. Aevalle told me they’re a touchy subject.”

                “Did she?”

                “She just said you don’t like people asking about them. Hah, wow, I had one job…”

                They walk in silence for a while. Fenris finds a river that runs to the ocean, and he begins to collect the mussels that thrive there. The lines of lyrium run along the backs of his hands, and he sees them in every motion he makes, in every moment he sees a part of himself. He wishes he had not flinched. He finds that he likes Hawke, no matter what he thinks of Aevalle’s other friends. He wonders what it would be like, to reciprocate her playful flirting. To be able to do more than blush at her lingering gaze.

                “We would sometimes use mussel shells to make blades or tools,” he says instead, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Hawke’s eyes light up. “If we were desperate, or separated from the others.”

                “Were they sharp?”

                “As sharp as metal? No. Enough to gut a fish. Cut a rope.” Kill a man, he thinks, but does not say.

                “You know how to fish?”

                “Yes, but I cannot stand the stuff. And I have little desire to sit on the dock with the others.”

                She smirks. “I have a boat,” she tells him. “It’s a two-seater.”

                Aevalle returns in the evening with an impressive bundle of grouse and rabbits tied together on a rope and a small deer slung over her shoulders like it weighs nothing. There are leaves in her hair and she grins when she sees Merrill gutting several large fish, using their still-beating hearts to gross out Dorian. They cook the barnacles in the coals until their shells burst open, and the clams and mussels are cooked in the wine Dorian has brought. The oysters they eat raw, and Aevalle pretends not to notice when Fenris find a very tiny pearl in one, which he gives to Hawke.

                Aevalle and Merrill spend over two hours butchering the kills, and they’re so covered in blood by the end of it that Dorian teases them until Hawke puts a smear of it over her nose, grinning. Merrill breaks out the jars, and everything is seasoned according to tradition—Merrill and Aevalle take turns telling the stories, sometimes debate the nuance between their respective clans’ versions.

                As the night goes on, and everyone has had their fill and more of the food, Merrill and Aevalle tell a tale of Fen’harel, and how Andruil wanted to chain him to her bed. They tell it with dark and sultry voices, influenced by the fine Tevinter wine and the cheap beer. Hawke leans into Fenris’ shoulder as they tell the story, and he doesn’t flinch when her fingers trace the unmarked skin on his arm, the places of him that that are not scarred by his past.

                Maybe this is what it’s like, he thinks. Maybe it’s this easy. He leans into her touch and allows himself to think that it is, just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a joke that went something like "why have a coffee shop au when you can have a pastry school au" so here we are I guess.


	2. I Heard You Pacing

The sign on the restaurant window says help wanted, and hunger burns a hole in his resolve so Fenris walks in and asks, tries his best to look respectable. Not angry, not exhausted beyond everything, not shaking with the running, constant running.

                There’s someone about his age there, and she meets his gaze. He doesn’t look away—he can’t, anymore. He doesn’t have it in him. And she runs across the restaurant and embraces him like she knows him, asks his name as a whisper in his ear, and he gives it because how long has it been since he felt the touch of a living person and not ripped their heart out? Since Seheron, but even that is tainted now.

                She calls the manager over. This is her cousin, she says. Acts like she has known him her whole life. He tries not to look like a wild animal but it’s in his bones now, the pacing and the jumping at every noise. She holds his hand as if they’re familiar, and he wants to reject that touch but she is so gentle, and he finds he does not want to hurt her.

                He is shown the dish pit, an apron and a plastic sheet that goes over top. Some gloves that are too big for his hands, and they go all the way up to his elbows. He starts washing without a word, and keeps at it until she comes back with a half-eaten plate of food, humming a song that sounds like it should be familiar.

                “Why did you lie for me?” he says, like it doesn't matter, like he's not suspicious or angry that she helped him just because he is an elf, by some virtue of shared blood.

                “We need a dishwasher,” she tells him with a wry smile. She holds the half-eaten sandwich out, an offering. “You look like you could use a break. Look I promise nobody spit on that, I took it off the table myself.”

                The sandwich is cold, and it's not to his taste but it is filling. She hums to herself while she repairs the sleeve on a jacket, with a peculiar kind of stitching that Fenris hasn't seen before.

                “Thank you,” he says when he is finished. The words are unfamiliar in his mouth, but not unpleasant.

                How did they go from there to sleeping in the same car? To lying with their backs to one another while they shook with nightmares of the past, their souls laid bare. Fenris doesn't know. He wonders, from time to time. At first he wants nothing to do with her, confused by her motives; no one just helps him for nothing, she must have an angle. But it's her he calls when he sees Danarius on the news, sees he will be in town, and she's the one he tells, pacing in a dark parking lot, everything that he is frightened of telling anyone, because he can't hold it in any more, and when he slumps to the curb, a wreck, she shifts closer to him so he can lean against her and shake with rage, fear and the lyrium dancing on his flesh.

                She shows him the scar on her hand, the one she hides under sweaters with thumb holes and gloves or arm warmers she has made, tells him about the fire and the man who saved her. “Where is he now?” Fenris asks. Her mouth twists when she says she does not know.

                Danarius doesn't find him. Fenris remains in Kirkwall, goes back to the dish pit and washes dishes until his shoes are soaked through and then he keeps going. Lavellan says nothing to anyone, and she does not go looking for the man who saved her. He offers to walk her home when she helps him finish the dishes after her shift, and when the humans yell curses at them they hold hands, tight, keeping the fight instinct at bay.

                One time they do not, they go in fists flying _say knife ear to my face shem_ and it’s glorious, it’s violent and bloody and they laugh at each others’ black eyes in the morning. When her girlfriend kicks her out she asks if she can stay with him, and they spend their first night in the car together. She calls him _lethallin_ and means it, and he doesn’t remember having a family but he has her, and that’s enough for now.

                She listens when he tells her about Seheron, in the back seat of his car as they lie with their backs to each other in a pile of blankets. She tells him why she left her clan, and he turns to hold her when she cries about it. She teaches him how to pick locks, to figure out which empty condo building is the safest. Where the security at the gym is weak so they can slip in and shower for free.

                They steal from the leave a penny jar, they hoard her tips, and they find whatever work they can until they find an apartment. And then she shows him an old magazine with Orlesian cakes on the cover, flowers made from pulled sugar, and they keep it up. She knows a dwarf who makes this Fenris into someone other than who he is, someone who can apply for a bank account and school, a real job with tax receipts and everything, not just paid in cash under the counter. He has no real passion for cooking but he’s gotten this far with her, and he will follow her still.

 

Fenris wakes in the middle of the night, heart hammering and the lyrium burning into his flesh all over again.

                Its sharp glow illuminates the room as he launches himself from the bed and onto his feet, and with the sight of the furniture and Varric’s figure in the other bed he remembers where he is, where he is not, and his lungs remember to breathe.

                Varric turns in his sleep, groaning. “Turn off the lights,” he mutters, and then begins snoring again.

                Fenris closes his eyes and focuses on breathing, counting down from one hundred. It helps, a little, but he knows that he will not be able to go back to sleep so he slips out of the room, does a lap of the entire house to be sure everything is in order, and then when his body is still humming with the nightmare he leaves the house, stepping over the dog in the process.

                He finally feels the sheen of sweat on his skin when the wind hits it, and he shivers and clenches his fists against it. He winds his way down the path to the ocean, but the waves are not loud enough to drown out his frenzied thoughts. He sits on the beach for a while until he hears his phone buzz in his back pocket.

                It’s from Aevalle.

-{ You alright? I heard you pacing.

                -{ i am fine

                -{ go back to sleep

                He turns off the vibrate on his phone and tucks it away again. He draws his knees up to his chest and rests his head on them, staring off into the vast emptiness in front of him.

                It’s not long before he hears footsteps in the sand behind him, and he says, “I told you that I am fine.”

                “Shit,” Dorian says, and Fenris jumps to his feet.

                “You scared me!” Dorian continues. Clouds obscure the moon, but Fenris can see him clearly. “I never get used to how your eyes do that,” he continues, reaching in his pocket. He pulls out a lighter and lights the cigarette in his other hand. “Warn a man next time, would you?”

                Fenris stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts to walk towards the path.

                “Look,” Dorian says.

                Fenris pauses.

                “I get it,” Dorian continues.

                “No,” says Fenris, his lips forming a snarl. “You do not.”

                He keeps walking, and Dorian does not try to stop him again.

               

Varric wakes up again to the most awful noise going on downstairs, and at first he thinks maybe Hawke and Broody are going at it, but there is a crash of glass on the floor and Dorian’s voice drifts up, sounding frantic.

                “Come to my family’s cabin for the weekend.” Varric grumbles, throwing the sheets off the bed. “Invite everyone at the table because I want to fuck the prickly elf boy I’ve known for two whole minutes. It’ll be fun, Varric.”

                Aevalle is trying to calm Dorian down when he gets downstairs. The man is frantic, and when Varric turns on the lights he can see blood spatter on his face and his clothes.

                “Shit,” Varric says.

                “What? Is something on my—” Dorian lets loose a string of Tevene that Varric can only assume is colourful when he catches his reflection in a mirror.

                “What the hell happened?” Hawke asks, her eyes wide. Everyone else is slowly funnelling into the room, even Hawke’s idiot brother.

                Dorian exhales. “Okay,” he says. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

                “What does it look like?” Carver grumbles.

                “I don’t know!” Dorian yells, and everyone jumps in place—except Aevalle, who seems to be looking around for something. “Send people to kidnap me, he does that all the time. Kill me? Why send someone all the way from Tevinter just to kill me?”

                “Where’s Fenris?” Aevalle asks, her voice high with panic.

                Everyone looks around. The elf is nowhere to be seen.

                “I saw him on the beach earlier,” said Dorian. “He went up into the woods.”

                He’s barely finished and Aevalle is running back upstairs to the room she’s sharing with Merrill. Varric follows her, turning in the doorway just in time to see her jumping out her window, bow in hand. She disappears into the trees with a flash, and Varric swears. He turns and Hawke is behind him, looking extremely confused.

                “What the hell’s going on?” he asks.

                They hear the sound of lightning in the distance, followed by screaming. Then Hawke is charging down the stairs. Varric goes to follow her, but he changes his mind and goes back to his room, where Bianca is sitting pretty in her case under his bed.

               

Fenris is cornered and outnumbered but the lyrium is burning and his fists are covered in blood. He fights through the blur of the night, lit by his lyrium veins and the crackle of magic around him, and sometimes it’s the fog warriors he’s beating down and sometimes they’re slavers, he doesn’t know.

                “Give it up, slave!” their leader yells. There are too many, they know what he is capable of, they know to keep him frightened and turning, always turning, and they use lightning magic so his eyes cannot adjust to the dark or the light, it’s all flashing so fast and fragmented like the nightmares he can’t escape.

                “I am not a slave!” He snarls like the wolf Danarius named him for. It’s instinctual, coming from his gut like his body knows it needs to get out, the word is poison and it’s eating him from the inside. The burning of the lyrium hurts more than the blow Fenris takes to his side and he doesn’t even flinch at the club, instead he grabs it and yanks the man’s arm nearly off.

                A mage in front of him is in the middle of casting lightning when an arrow hits him in the side of the head, and the spell misfires, spreading from either side of the dead man and into his allies. Fenris jumps over them as they writhe on the ground, screaming. In rapid succession two more are down, and Fenris doesn’t have to watch his back anymore, he can just barrel through.

                He sees a mage to his left, but when he turns it is Dorian, lightning sparking at his fingers and one of Fenris’ attackers falling before him. “Duck!” he shouts, and Fenris drops to his knees. He can smell charred flesh behind him, and he sees a man with a club behind Dorian. His lyrium flares and the world around him is a blur of light, and then his hand is in the slaver’s chest and he pulls it out. Dorian yells in surprise, and Fenris leaves the corpse to fall to its feet on its own and Dorian gaping in shock at it.

                He doesn’t hear the gunshot, but he sees a man with a bullet square between his eyes waver, uncertainly, before falling. Somewhere in the corner of his vision Carver has a plank of wood and he’s cracking a man across the head with it, yelling. Behind him is Hawke, her arms brought up to protect her face, flames pouring from her fists as she blocks a frost attack, a different kind of wickedness in her grin. She drops and with a kick enrobed in flame she sweeps her opponents’ feet out from under them, laughing all the while. Tree roots begin to move on their own, giant limbs reaching down and wrapping around men Fenris can barely make out in the carnage, but he can hear them screaming.

                The slavers were not prepared to fight more than Fenris, and certainly not mages. It takes surprisingly little time to take care of the rest, and Aevalle drops from the trees to kick the leader in the back when his attention is on Fenris. He hits the ground and tries to rise, but stops when Aevalle presses an arrow to his cheek, her bow at full draw, and her foot on his back.

                “ _Ma halam, shemlen_.” She spits on his face for good measure.

                “Aevalle,” Fenris breathes.

                “ _Lethallin_.” She looks up from her captive, her expression twisted with worry. “Are you hurt?”

                He is too focused on breathing to reply. His hands twitch with the burn of the lyrium and no outlet for the pain, but it is subsiding. He shakes his head, slowly, and he approaches her captive, holding his side where he took the blow.

                “Pathetic,” the man at Aevalle’s feet said. “You children think you’ve won? He knows where you are. We had orders to take you alive, but I assure you now that Danarius now only wants a return on his investment.”

                “Danarius,” Dorian says, somewhere behind Fenris. “Magister Danarius.”

                “Who the hell’s that?” Varric wonders, coming out of the woods behind Aevalle. He has an impressive sniper rifle resting on his shoulder.

                “Only one of the most powerful Magisters in the Imperium,” Dorian continues, “not to mention power-crazed, bloodthirsty, vindictive and—oh shit. You’re _him_.”

                “Where is Danarius?” Fenris growls.

                The man on the ground laughs. “He’ll come for you,” he says, laughing still. “He’s caught your scent, slave. There’s nowhere you can run from him now.”

                “I’d be more helpful if I were you, _shem_ ,” Aevalle says.

                “Don’t tell me what to do you knife-eared whore.”

                Aevalle doesn’t even blink. She moves the tip of her arrow and hooks the man’s ear with it, pulling it away from his head. Then she shoots the arrow, and it hits the ground behind his head with half his ear still attached.

                The slaver screams, and it twists with his laughter as she removes her foot from his back. Fenris grabs the man and shoves him against the nearest tree. Then the lyrium on his arm flares, and his hand phases through the man’s chest. He feels it materialize around the heart, beating frantically, slick and small and awful, and Fenris yanks his arm back. He can feel the ribcage as the slightest resistance, the flutter of the heart as the arteries stretch and snap under his grip, and the man’s body convulse around him as his life is torn from his chest.

                He throws the organ to the ground, ignoring the bile rising in his throat. No one says a thing for a whole agonizing minute.

                “ _Lethallin_ ,” Aevalle says.

                “Are you hurt?” he asks. He can’t even bear to look at her—he just ripped a man’s heart out of his chest in front of her friends. Half of whom are— _Hawke is a mage_. The thought turns his stomach, but he thinks of her warmth when she leaned on his shoulder and it calms him. He closes his eyes.

                “No,” she says, softly. After a moment’s hesitation, she says, “I guess we need to get moving.”

                He turns and looks at her then. There is blood spatter on her face, but none of it is hers. Her features are narrowed with worry for him, with determination—with sadness. He remembers the old magazine with the cakes.

                He reaches out to touch her—but his hands are covered in blood, so he stops short of her shoulder, his fingers curling into his palm. “No,” he says, softly.

                She frowns. “I’m not letting you run off by yourself, Fenris.”

                He smiles a little. “I will not run from this any longer.”

                Her eyes widen, but she says nothing.

                Fenris casts his gaze to everyone else, all assembled some respectful distance away. Varric with a sniper rifle, Hawke an apostate, Dorian with his high-born accent, Merrill with her Keeper magic. Hawke’s brother looking markedly out of place, no secrets of his own to keep.

                Fenris looks at Dorian again. “I do not remember meeting you,” he says at length.

                Dorian sighs. “My real name is Dorian of house Pavus,” he says.

                “Ah. Your father I remember.”

                “Scared the shit out of him more like.” Dorian exhales. “You don’t need to worry about me—I’ve left that life behind me. My family never approved of my disinclination towards the opposite sex, and I declined their insistence that I lie about it. I’ve nothing to gain for turning you in, if that’s any comfort.”

                Fenris considers him for a long moment. But it’s Aevalle’s light touch on his shoulder that makes him nod, however slightly.

                “Care to explain to the rest of us what the hell just happened?” Carver asks.

                Everyone at once turns and glares at him.

                “First we need to do something about these bodies,” Aevalle says.

                Everyone moves and starts the process of gathering up all the corpses, but Aevalle and Fenris linger a moment longer, her hand squeezing his shoulder just enough to reassure him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Fenris underestimates the power of his puppy-dog eyes. 
> 
> As I get further into writing this fic it becomes slightly less a "Pastry School" AU and more like a "why the fuck does anyone work in this industry anyway" AU so apparently approaching the end of school is leaving me incredibly jaded


	3. His Half-Packed Bag

Monday rolls around, and Fenris and Aevalle are changing into their whites in front of their shared locker. Fenris takes off his shirt while Aevalle strips down to leggings and a tank top, and it takes Aevalle several tries to tie her necktie while Fenris gets his immediately. Their hands move with the numbness of the early morning and their late homecoming, collapsing on the floor of their apartment at three in the morning after the long drive back from the coast.

                _I was a slave to a magister named Danarius_ , Fenris told them when they sat around the Hawke family kitchen. _These markings are lyrium. My first memory is the pain when they were burned into my flesh. I used them to escape. I am tired of running._

                The Hawke siblings lost their sister and their father to Templars many years ago, and they fled with their mother to Kirkwall then, young and frightened. They ran with a gang until they proved their mother had been cheated out of her inheritance—the lap of luxury is new to them and there’s guilt because it doesn’t fit, it might never. Hawke wears hers in the sarcastic twist of her smile, Carver in the chip on his shoulder. Merrill left her clan to seek their past, her arms bearing the marks of blood magic. Varric calls his sniper rifle Bianca, and no he does not have a permit for it. His brother double-crossed him years ago and Hawke was there, so he stands at her side now, in spite of everything. Dorian left his home when his father tried to use Blood Magic to change him, make him something more suited to Tevinter. He hasn’t looked back.

                They went around the circle like that until it was Aevalle’s turn, sitting on the counter next to Fenris. She peeled off her glove and held her hand out. _My friend was taken by humans. I took a couple hunters and the First with me to get her back. There was a fire,_ she said. _I walked out of it alone._

                Gloves are not part of the uniform, and Aevalle takes hers off only when she is fully dressed. The scar on her hand is ugly, a slash across her palm that has twisted and marred her skin. He knows she will put on a blue nitrile glove in the lab to cover it, to hide the way the scar tissue tugs at her skin. Fenris goes back to rolling up the sleeves of his jacket, knowing she does not like even him looking at it.

                “Ugh,” says a voice behind them, “Fenris, how do you and Dorian make these awful pants look so good?”

                They turn, and Hawke is walking down the hallway with two drink trays full of coffee, dark circles under her eyes and that ever-present smirk gracing her lips. She has not bothered with makeup, her hair is an absolute mess, but when she puts one drink tray on top of a table and hands Fenris a cup of coffee he sees only the way her eyes linger on his, the way her smile deepens mischievously. He knows her hands linger near his by design, that their fingers touch precisely because she wants them to.

                He had thought for sure they would all hate him now. Felt it in his bones for the long drive home, Aevalle’s bare feet propped up on the dashboard and Merrill’s soft snoring coming from the back seat. But Hawke is there, her signal loud and clear, and he can’t help a smile of his own.

                “That’s because I look good in everything, Hawke,” Dorian says, coming from the other end of the hallway. He glances through all the coffee cups before he finds his and he smells it with a sigh. “There are generations of breeding involved, I won’t bore you with the particulars of the genealogy.”

                “And Fenris?”

                Dorian shrugs. “Some people are just lucky.”

                “ _Na’ran ena’ansal_ ,” Aevalle murmurs sleepily when Hawke hands her a cup.

                “You are a blessing,” Merrill translates with a yawn. She and Varric stop to take their drinks from Hawke, looking just as exhausted as everyone else.

                “So formal for so early in the morning,” Varric grumbles.

                Aevalle yawns. “Sorry,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “Had a weird dream last night.”

                Fenris slings his knife roll over his shoulder. “I should go,” he says.

                “Have a good day making omelettes, Broody,” Varric says.

                “Meet us for lunch after?” Dorian asks.

                “I will,” he answers, looking at Hawke. She winks at him.

                He meets them for lunch in the shade of a large tree. They all smell like yeast and fresh baked bread, while he smells like onions and raw bacon. Aevalle has stolen all the loaves they made with their scrap dough, too small for the school to sell, and they devour them while Varric teaches them all to play Wicked Grace, smiling.

 

The third night in a row, Fenris is up and pacing in the living room of their small apartment, the light of his lyrium flickering on the walls.

                He hears Aevalle’s door creak open. “Fenris?” she asks.

                He supposes he must have woken her when he threw his half-packed bag across his bedroom.

                “I will not run,” he says through gritted teeth. “I will not let them rule me any longer.”

                She joins him in the living room, sitting on the arm of the sofa. She already has a mug in her hands, and he can smell the instant coffee in it. He’s not in the frame of mind to wonder how long she’s already been up, to look for dark circles under her eyes.

                “Bad dreams?” she asks, softly.

                He can’t stop pacing, can’t respond to her question with anything other than an angry grunt.

                “Tell me what’s wrong.”

                He will not look at her. He clenches and unclenches his fists, wonders if the neighbours across the complex are suspicious of the strange blue glow through their thin curtains. Perhaps they are spies. Perhaps they are being paid—

                He charges to the balcony door and opens the curtain just enough to peer off into the darkness. He can’t make out anyone watching, any suspicious gaps in curtains, any shadows on balconies. He draws the curtains shut again in a hurry.

                “ _Lethallin_ ,” she says.

                “You are in danger,” he tells her, finally able to speak. “They will come for me and they will use you to get to me. _Festis bei umo canavarum_ , if I run you will be safe.”

                She blinks slowly at him. “I’m never really safe, Fenris.”

                He knows that. She confessed it to him in the car, their backs to each other, the name of a dream walking apostate on her lips. He resumes his pacing.

                “Do you want to tell me about the nightmares?” she says at length.

                “No,” he says, and it’s too quick and too loud so he startles himself with it, so badly he almost laughs. He’s such a fucking joke.

                She doesn’t say any more. He can only glance up at her, not look at her directly, and there is no fear in her expression, only worry.

                He cannot tell her that in his dreams Hadriana has found them, that she does to Aevalle what she does to elves, to slaves. Once he fell asleep dreaming of what they did to him—now it is Aevalle dying on an altar, falling to his hands on Seheron, screaming in pain under Hadriana’s knife.

                He should tell her, warn her. But the words are chalk in his mouth and he cannot say them—what happens if he warns her, and she lets him leave?

 

Months pass. The weather grows colder and unbearably wet. Fenris’ schedule quickly becomes out of sync with theirs as he rotates through the kitchens. Aevalle asks frequently if he’s made any friends and he always tells her no, but one time she sees him in the hallway with Isabella, Cassandra and Bull, and suddenly their Wicked Grace group on Thursday nights has gotten a lot bigger. Fenris wonders if Hawke will be jealous when Isabella starts trying to guess the colour of his underwear in front of her.

                There’s a flash of it in Hawke’s eyes, just for a moment, and it makes Fenris’ lips turn up into the smallest of smiles.

                Sometimes Fenris only sees Aevalle at night, when they are running into the restaurant, remembering to put shoes on at the last second. When one of the line cooks quits in the middle of service Fenris steps in, almost cuts himself on the dull knives the chef hands him. Aevalle and the other servers take turns washing dishes in the back, one or two pots at a time, but they accumulate regardless.

                The fourth night in a row they are both there at three in the morning, scrubbing dishes, and although she has class in four hours she won’t leave him to finish alone. It’s Wicked Grace night and normally they don’t work on Thursdays but two servers have quit and Aevalle is run off her feet even before she stays with Fenris, dark circles under her eyes and her left hand twitching.

                “Have you been sleeping?” he asks.

                “Not lately,” she says through a yawn. “If they don’t hire a new dishwasher soon I’m going to kill someone.”

                Her hand clenches like a spasm has gone through it, and she drops the pan she was holding into the sink.

                “Shit,” she says, and she goes for it. Fenris grabs her wrist before her hand hits the water—it’s steaming hot, and he can feel the heat even through the thick rubber gloves he’s wearing. There’s even a helpful drawing of a melting hand hanging above the sink, faded and water stained.

                “Oh yeah,” she says, laughing. “Right. Water’s hot.”

                She does not move from his grip, and for a moment he thinks she is wavering, leaning into him.

                “Aevalle,” he says.

                She starts, almost pulls away. “Yes, _Lethallin_?”

                He opens his mouth to ask her about it—she’s drinking more coffee than usual, later than usual. He thinks he can hear her up later at night than normal.

                Then there’s a banging on the back door, and she pulls her hand out of his grasp to go see who it is. Fenris works his jaw back and forth, fishing the pan out of the water.

                She peeks out the hole and grins before she opens the door.

                “You’re amazing, both of you. _Lethallin_ , we have visitors!”

                He turns to see Hawke and Varric pile in, holding two large bags of Antivan takeout. Hawke is sporting a piece of gauze stretched across the bridge of her nose, fastened with an absurd amount of medical tape.

                “Sheet pan,” Aevalle says with a laugh when Fenris asks.

                Hawke looks furious with them both, and her hand moves to cover the gauze. Her eyes flash to Fenris and he can see a flush forming on her cheeks.

                He feels a small smile at the corner of his lips.

                “It must be quite the story,” he says.

                “The way Varric goes on, it is,” she says. They put the bags on the counter and pull out the containers. “Got you the chicken, Fenris,” she says.

                He turns to push another tray full of dishes through the sanitizer, and when he brings the hood of it down he doesn’t hear Hawke coming behind him over the whirling of water and machinery. She leans against the sink next to him, not quite touching him.

                “You go ahead and eat,” she says. “Varric and I can get this.”

                He and Aevalle sit on the counters while they eat and their visitors get going on the dishes, and it doesn’t take long for Hawke and Varric to start arguing about the three-stage sanitizing method and proper dishwashing procedure.

               When they are having a particularly amusing argument about the equipment being a sanitizer and _not_ a dishwasher, Aevalle elbows Fenris hard and waggles her eyebrows significantly.

                “She remembered you don’t like fish,” she says.

                He looks away, trying not to smile at her excitement. “You don’t know that.”

                “I know this place, Fenris, it’s _famous_ for its fish. And not one of our meals has any fish in it.”

                Cleaning doesn’t seem to go any faster with Hawke and Varric there—at one point Hawke attempts to get them all to play some sort of game involving brooms and milk crates—but Fenris forgets his exhaustion, Aevalle laughs, and when they stand outside the back entrance, alarm set and lights off, Aevalle says, “We have like, two hours, tops, to sleep, let’s all just crash at our place.”

                Fenris doesn’t remember much about the drive home, but he does remember the light of Hawke’s headlights in his rear view mirror and Aevalle’s excited presence in the car seat next to him. She texts Varric the whole way, and although she laughs at almost all of his responses she does not share them with Fenris.

                Fenris doesn’t have the presence of mind to be embarrassed by their sparse apartment, or the half-empty mugs of instant coffee Aevalle has left everywhere. Or, for that matter, to hide the fact that he has to patrol the entire apartment before he can say or do anything else, paranoia still winning over exhaustion.

                When he comes back out of his room into the living room, Varric has claimed the couch and he’s already snoring. Hawke is lying on her back on the floor, and Aevalle is lying nearby, laughing.

                “Get up,” she’s telling Hawke in between bouts of giggles.

                “No, you get up.”

                “You may have my bed,” Fenris offers. He forgets that it’s just a mattress on the floor—he still can’t sleep well with empty space below him where someone might hide.

                “Then where will you sleep?” Hawke mumbles. Her hand covers her eyes, the weight of it pulling the gauze from her nose. She doesn’t seem to notice.

                “I can sleep anywhere,” he says, yawning. “And my class starts much later than yours.”

                She raises her arm toward him. “Pull me up,” she says, a mischievous smile on her face.

                He tries, but she pulls him down instead. She laughs softly and does not let go of his hand, and Fenris feels so dizzy from the sudden movement of it so he lies down next to her, thinking he will just close his eyes for a moment.

                It seems like only precious seconds later when Aevalle’s phone alarm goes off—he can feel the vibration of it through the floor. As one all four of them groan, but Fenris feels Hawke’s hand still in his grasp so he does not shift when he hears Varric sit up on the couch. Instead he opens his eyes slowly, to see Hawke has turned to face him in the night, one eye slipping open to look at him. The gauze has completely fallen off her face and the mark across her nose is bright red, angry and scabbing over, but she’s smiling and it makes him want to say something, anything.

                The warmth of her hand in his feels soft, safe. The words fall from his mouth, sleepily. “ _Visu pulchra sis mulier.”_

                “I could get used to this,” Hawke says, closing her eye again.

                “ _Fenedhis lasa_ ,” Aevalle curses, and Fenris can hear her getting up, slowly.

                “Tell me you’ve got coffee,” Varric grumbles, standing up. Fenris tenses as the dwarf picks his way around them, but the chuckle in Varric’s throat makes Fenris relax.

                He lies with Hawke while Aevalle and Varric flit about their small kitchen, making a quick meal of whatever they can pull out of the fridge. Varric comes back to bother them with a cold chicken drumstick stuffed in his mouth, attempting to tempt Hawke into standing with the smell of instant coffee.

                “This is a tragedy,” he says while he’s doing it. “I am buying you a proper coffee machine for your birthday, Bluebird.”

                “Dalish don’t celebrate birthdays.”

                “I’m not going to school today,” Hawke protests.

                “Three strikes and they kick you out of the program, Hawke,” Varric warns. He pauses only to eat more of the chicken leg. “Unless you have a doctor’s note.”

                “Tell them I’m dying.”

                It takes so much cajoling and bargaining to get Hawke off the floor that Fenris worries they will all be late for their efforts. They drag her out the door and Fenris watches them go, barely awake, feeling that little smile on his lips even as the door closes, even as Hawke’s protests can be heard retreating down the hallway. Fenris leans against the wall with a sigh, like he is collapsing in on himself, clutching the remnants of her warmth to him. As if he can keep it close, never let her leave.

                But after that night, his nightmares change again, and he is watching the brands going into Hawke’s skin, watching all memory and sense leave her and there is nothing in her eyes but pain as she screams. Instead of the fog warriors, Danarius orders him to cut her down and in some dreams she calls him every awful thing under the sun as he does it. The worst are the ones where she forgives him as he rips her heart out.

                He paces the apartment like an animal in the dead of night, the blinds all drawn closed and the light of the lyrium dancing on the walls, mocking him. Aevalle sits on their rescued couch and watches him while she sips instant coffee at three in the morning, listens to his ravings that are half-Tevene, half-Trade and all of it nonsense, full sentences and articulations beyond him. He does not, cannot tell her the root of it all because he does not understand it himself, cannot come to terms with what it all means.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for my really terrible Google Translate latin in place of Tevene. I promise not to do it very often.
> 
> Festis bei umo canavarum - Roughly translates to "I'm dogmeat" and while I think Fenris sometimes uses it to mean "you'll be the death of me" in canon, here he is using it for its literal meaning.  
> Visu pulchra sis mulier – You are a beautiful sight, woman.
> 
> If you're wondering what awful pants I'm talking about, [they look pretty much like this](http://www.chefuniforms.com/chef-pants/baggy-pants/026.asp). I had the pleasure of visiting the Culinary Institute of America and they also have to wear ugly houndstooth/checkered chef pants, but goddamn theirs were a million times nicer than ours it's not even fair.


	4. New Message from Bluebird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update today, make sure you read chapter 3 first

_New message from Bluebird_

-{ Okay be real with me

-{ Who remembered that Fenris doesn’t like Fish?

                -{ You’re shitting me

                -{ Hawke told me he was allergic

                -{ The reason I wasn’t allowed Kirkwall’s best fried fish  
                   is because Broody’s a picky eater?

-{ Lol

                -{ Maker’s breath

-{ The smell makes him sick

                -{ You can try to convince me to coddle him as much as  
                 you want

                -{ It’s not happening

                -{ Hawke is currently swearing up and down she thought  
                  he was allergic

                -{ Lies. All lies.

-{ He caught all the fish and shellfish at Hawke’s  
    cabin

                -{ I make bread, Bluebird

                -{ I don’t pretend to understand how allergies work

                -{ Someone says “I’m Celiac” I say “Well don’t fucking  
                   eat it then”

                -{  “I’m allergic to nuts can I eat this?”

                -{  “No you fucking can’t you will puff up and die”

-{ Stop making me laugh! Fenris is giving me the  
    weirdest looks.

                -{ I might have just suggested to Hawke that she only  
                    refused to get fish so she could suck face with  
                    Broody after 

                -{ She’s trying to deny it

-{ I wouldn’t believe a thing she says

-{ Also, suck face? Eew.

                -{ Bluebird, when two people love each other very  
                  much...

-{ June’s balls Varric I’ve had sex before

                -{ Well I owe Sparkler two sovereigns.

                -{ While we’re here you into guys? Girls? Both?  
                   Otherwise inclined?

                -{ All of the above?

                -{ None of the above?

-{ Varric!!!

                -{ Just trying to negate my losses!

                -{ Anyway the point is

                -{ If they’re going to do anything with each other

                -{ It will probably be slightly violent and really sloppy

                -{ And they’ll probably just attach at the face like those  
                  weird fish and never let go

                -{ Thus suck face

-{ Things I did not need to hear about the guy who is  
     basically my brother

-{ Also how many weird bets do you and Dorian have  
    about me

                -{ Not four

-{ Varric

                -{ Do you like them older or younger?

-{ Fenhedis lasa

                -{ You keep saying that

                -{ What does it actually mean

-{ It's sort of embarassing?

                -{ I like how that’s a question

                -{ No one actually knows what it means do they

-{ I do!

-{ I just don't want to tell you

                -{ Is it naughty

-{ Um

-{ Yes?

                -{ Look it’s either naughty or it isn’t

-{ It depends on the context

                -{ That is bullshit and you know it

-{ Look I have it on good authority that what you or  
     I might find scandalous as fuck my ancestors  
     considered pretty tame

-{ Oh fuck I’m starting to sound like him

-{ Forget I sent that

                -{ Him??????

-{ Fuck

-{ Forget I sent that too

                -{ Oh no I will not

                -{ You have a sordid past don’t you?

-{ If that won you any sovereigns I will switch out all  
    your sugar for salt when we get to school

                -{ Threats of sabotage!

                -{ This must be juicy

-{ I’ll do it

                -{ Don’t be embarrassed Bluebird. Your secret is safe  
                   with me.

-{ What secret?

                -{ Only the fact that you’re into huge fucking nerds

-{ Says the guy who is critiquing Isabella’s “Friend  
    Fiction”

                -{ Did he talk dirty in elven to you?

                -{ Okay your little dots have been going for a while so  
                   I’m going to go with “yes”

-{ I don’t know what you’re talking about            

                -{ She lives!

                -{ That was a whole minute of typing and erasing and  
                   you are going to go with the worst possible answer  
                   to that question

                -{ That’s worse than “Maybe”

                -{ I see you glaring at me up there

-{ I can’t see you. Do you look as smug as I think  
    you do?

                -{ Every bit

                -{ Look I promise not to tell anyone if you just give me a  
                   little sample of some sweet elven pillow talk

-{ “Sweet elven pillow talk?”

                -{ Don’t ask me that all innocently

-{ What

                -{ Allow me to screenshot your earlier bragging of your  
                   sexual prowess and send it to you

-{ Fuck don’t do that I’m almost maxed out on data

-{ Also sexual prowess?

-{ Eew

                -{ Judge all you like Bluebird, I get results

                -{ Come on just a little bit. I’m dying to know.

-{ If this winds up in Isabella’s Friend Fiction you’ll  
    regret it

                -{ Yeah you already threatened the salt thing

                -{ Big deal, we’ll just have weird ass flat bread

-{ That’s not how flat bread works

                -{ Is now

                -{ We’ll spread caramel on it and call it a dessert

                -{ Um

                -{ Slice

-{ Eew

                -{ You laugh but humans would buy that shit

-{ They would, wouldn’t they

                -{ If you slapped some fancy Orlesian name on it

                -{ Hey stop distracting me

-{ Damn

-{ My clever plan is foiled by the beardless dwarf

-{ You know Fenris said something really funny about  
    that the other day

-{ What was it

                -{ Okay now I know you’re lying

                -{ Broody is never funny

                -{ Pillow talk, Aevalle.

-{ Planning to cuddle with your phone while you  
    sleep tonight?

                -{ Of course not!

                -{ Bianca would get jealous

                -{ Is this long pillow talk, you’ve been typing for a while

-{ Please tell me you don’t really cuddle with your  
    sniper rifle

                -{ Now you’ve hurt her feelings

-{ PLEASE tell me you don’t keep your sniper rifle  
    in the back of the car

                -{ I’m not saying a thing

                -{ Pillow talk, woman

-{ Ugh

-{ You’re the actual worst

-{ You’re not allowed to tell anyone

                -{ My lips are sealed

-{ Liar

                -{ When would I ever!

-{ Ir suledin var mah halam, vhenan. Ar dirtha  
    vir’sulenehn.

                -{ Okay this was supposed to prove something

                -{ But for all I know you could be talking about doing laundry

-{ Ha

                -{ Are you peering around your seat to give me a superior look

                -{ I have my resources

-{ Oh no

-{ Leave Merrill out of this

-{ She’s an innocent Varric

-{ Varric?

                -{ Too late already texted her.

                -{ Too bad her phone’s off

                -{ We’ll find out in the morning!

                -{ Well in a couple hours

-{ Ma halam, durgen’len

                -{ What does that mean

-{ It means you’re dogmeat, Varric

                -{ Worth it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ir suledin var mah halam, vhenan. Ar dirtha vir’sulenehn. – Endure it a little more, the end is still long ahead, my heart. I will speak the way of joyful song. (Basically like “Don’t come yet, I’ll tell you when you can”  
> Ma halam, dugen’len –You’re finished, dwarf  
> Fenhedis lasa - apparently means "Suck wolf dick" which is possibly the funniest thing I've ever heard on a number of levels but would probably seem a little silly to anyone who isn't Dalish.
> 
> Okay I don't know how people feel about text message chapters, but my friend who is so lovely as to be reading all of these as I write them wanted to know what Aevalle and Varric were texting each other in Chapter 3. And then it developed into some hints about Aevalle's past and I figured why the hell not. Long story short there's more of these text message chapters scattered throughout and they're so much fun to write. I should have just done this whole fic in text message format.
> 
> Do we have any preferences as to formatting? I wanted to keep it pretty plain and to look sort of like whatever Thedas' equivalent of an iPhone would be.
> 
> The salt thing is a cruel way to fuck with whoever you don't like in the bakery, and also waste your employers' money. Among other things, salt kills yeast, and unless you're in the habit of tasting your dough before you put on the bench to rest you'd never know it wasn't gonna rise until you've stuck your dough in the proofer and it's still the same size it was an hour later.


	5. I Still Endure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mildly NSFW content in this chapter.

Fenris wakes one morning to the sound of Aevalle dropping something on the kitchen floor.

                It’s loud and it’s early, and he’s in the middle of another nightmare, so he’s on his feet and in their tiny kitchen before he even thinks twice about it. He stops himself from stepping on shards of a mug, boiled water and instant coffee mix all over the floor, and he sees Aevalle on the floor, pulling herself into a seated position, her hand clenched against her chest.

                “ _Ar tu’suledin_ ,” she hisses.

                “Stay there.”

                He comes back with a towel and throws it on the floor over the ceramic shards. He stands on it and helps her to her feet, but even as she thanks him she sags against him, unable to stand.

                Her skin is hot and clammy to the touch.

                “You are staying home today,” he tells her, firmly.

                She reacts like he’s hit her, trying to shove him away with a snarl, and he has to grip tightly so she won’t stumble backward onto the mess on the floor. The towel shifts under them and they almost fall, but Fenris manages to grip the counter with one hand.

                She digs her nails into his shoulders as they waver. The lyrium on his skin burns at her touch, at his alarm, but she leans into his touch like he’s a lifeline.

                “ _Lethallin_ ,” she says, her voice low. “ _Tel’ama’in.”_

                He grits his teeth. “Bed,” he hisses.

                It takes serious effort to get her into her bed. Weak as she is she fights him the whole way, and she almost bolts when he has to clear dirty laundry off the bed she has clearly not been using. She seems immediately dizzy when she moves, leaning against the wall with a groan. By the time Fenris turns around to see what’s wrong, she’s crouched on the floor, her head in her hands, murmuring to herself in a low voice.

                Fenris stands there and watches her, and he tries not to panic. He finally manages to kneel in front of her and shake her, hard.

                Her head jerks up. Her eyes are wide and unfocused until she blinks several times.

                “Fenris?” she says, slowly.

                Why is that a question, he wonders.

                She opens and closes her hand. She’s wearing gloves even now, even when it is just the two of them and she is safe, and that worries him.

                He finally asks. “How long has it been since you last slept?”

                Her face twists up, her hand spasms. “I can—if I don’t sleep, he can’t come for me. You understand, _Lethallin_.”

                He picks her up and she does not fight him. He puts her on the bed and leaves her long enough to clean up the mess in the kitchen, to get his phone from his room and a bowl of cold water and a rag and brings them back to her bed.

                She’s tried to get up but she has only managed to sit, and the effort to stay there is clearly staggering. Her hands clutch the bed sheets on either side of her and her whole body sways in place, her eyes opened as wide as she can.

                “Just in little bits,” she says. “There’s science to this, Fenris. I looked it up.”

                One hand on her shoulder, the most delicate of pressure is all that’s needed to lower her, gently, back onto the bed.

                “All I have to do is not dream. REM sleep. I think. It made more sense a few weeks ago.”

                Fenris can’t help an exasperated sigh. He sits on the edge of the bed so she will not sit up again, texting Hawke with one hand and balancing the bowl on his knee with the other.

                -{ please make excuses for aevalle today

                -{ she is unwell

-{ So formal, Fenris!

-{ Full sentences and everything

-{ Is she okay?

                He hesitates. He puts his phone aside, wrings out the cloth and dabs it on her forehead, wondering if that helps at all.

                “I need to go to school,” she says.

                He exhales. “You need to sleep.”

                “He’ll find me,” she breathes, her mouth twisting in pain.

                She writhes in pain on her bed for the rest of the day, crying in a language Fenris doesn’t understand for a person he doesn’t know how to find. She begs for him in one moment and cries that he is coming for her in the next. Fenris stays with her, trying to keep her fever down with ice on her lips and cold towels on her forehead.

                His phone vibrates all day, and he goes into the living room long enough to listen to the manager beg him to come in, then politely and as firmly as he can manage without sounding angry he claims Aevalle has acute food poisoning and they can’t risk getting anyone sick. He had hated every second of his food safety course but he is grateful for it now, for knowing what words to use that would make the questions end.

                He does not lie to Hawke. He ignores her messages because he can’t answer them, ignores her calls because he doesn’t know what to say. Maybe it’s the dream he had last night that makes it harder to hit the ignore button—there’s some part of him that wants to hear her voice so badly, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

                He is exhausted and high strung and it’s late when the pounding comes at the door to their apartment. Fenris practically ghosts through the floor he’s so startled by the noise, and he doesn’t move from Aevalle’s side, his body frozen in place, lyrium burning under his skin.

                “Fenris?” Hawke calls, her voice only slightly muffled by the paper-thin walls and the door.

                “Bluebird, Broody, you two in here?”

                “Maybe they’ve gone to a hospital—oh maybe his phone is off and that’s why he hasn’t texted you back.”

                “Get the door, _Lethallin_ ,” Aevalle murmurs, and finally Fenris stands, his limbs creaking from the strain of waiting for... something, all day.

                He opens the door to their bickering in the hallway, scowling at them, the glow of his lyrium fading. Hawke, Varric and Merrill stare at him, wide-eyed, for a long and painful moment.

                “How did you get in?” he demands. His voice is rough and sharp and he regrets it, but it is done.

                Hawke is staring at the place on his shoulders where Aevalle’s nails tore into his skin. “What happened?”

                “You look like shit,” Varric says.

                Fenris remembers then that he is wearing only a pair of sweat pants, and he wavers in place, in between fleeing back into the apartment or moving aside to let them in.

                Muttering in elven drifts out from Aevalle’s room, and Fenris hears her try to get out of the bed again.

                “ _Venhedis,_ ” he curses, and he leaves the apartment door open as he whirls on his heel and back to her bedroom.

                “Hey,” Aevalle says weakly when the others follow Fenris into her room. She’s tried to sit up again, managing this time to touch her feet to the floor. “I’ll get everyone something to drink.”

                Fenris opens his mouth to yell at her—he has spent all day fighting her on this and his patience is long gone—but Merrill speaks first.

                “You will do no such thing, _Lethallan_ ,” she scolds. She sounds older, her voice more firm than Fenris has ever heard it, and she crosses the room to Aevalle. She presses the back of her hand to Aevalle’s forehead, and tuts like an old woman. “Such a fever. _Na ama ir har’el.”_

“ _Abelas_ ,” Aevalle murmurs.

                “She won’t sleep,” Fenris says. The words that tumble out of his mouth sound so angry, judgemental, but what little control he has over the situation has gone into thin air with the others in the apartment and his frayed temper has completely torn.

                Beside him, Hawke moves as if to touch his shoulder, then seems to think better of it. “Let me take a look at those scratches, Fenris,” she says.

                There is a small part of him that protests the way he stiffens at the suggestion. He feels it claw up into his throat and he can’t speak, like he’s choking on it.

                He follows her to the kitchen instead—and almost walks into her back when she stops, her gaze fallen to the floor, to the stains of coffee and the bundled up towel, the glitter of a few ceramic shards. She says nothing about his poor attempt to clean the mess, instead turning around and bringing him to his room.

                “Sit down,” she says. “I’ll get something to clean you up.”

                He stands in his bedroom without turning the lights on. He has little to clutter the room but manages it anyway, what clothing he has thrown in a pile in the corner. The time he might have spent cleaning it has been claimed by school and the restaurant. He doesn’t even have a dresser for his clothes were he to fold them, a single stacked plastic shelf in the closet fulfilling that need. His laptop is plugged into the wall and his mattress lies on the floor, sheets thrown askew by his frantic awakening. A small stack of dog-eared books by his bed are the only non-necessity in the room.

He can hear Aevalle and Merrill talking, softly enough that he can’t make out the words, only the tone of their low voices.

                Aevalle says something and Merrill’s breath catches in her throat.

                “What does that mean?” Varric asks.

                Fenris can hear Merrill say, “Oh, _Lethallan_ , I can’t,” and Aevalle’s voice rises in protest, and then there’s a scuffle of sorts as Aevalle tries to stand again.

                He almost turns and leaves the room, but Hawke is behind him with a wet rag.

                She’s blocking the door. He lowers his gaze and scowls.

                “They’ll take care of her,” Hawke says. “Please, sit down.”

                Still he does not move.

                “Fenris,” she says, “you can trust us.”

                His eyes flick up to her face. He holds her gaze for a heartbeat, and her grey eyes are warm, her smile kind.

                Something in him gives, and he sits on his mattress.

                She sits next to him. “May I?”

                He nods. The sound in the other room has died down, and he can only hear the murmur of their voices through the wall without words.

                Hawke presses the rag to his left shoulder and he winces. They sit in silence for a while as she cleans his shoulder, careful not to touch him with anything but the cloth. She takes her time, her attentions delicate, and when she is done she remains close to him, their knees not quite touching in the dark.

                “You haven’t been sleeping either,” she says at length.

                His face pulls into a scowl.

                “Want to talk about it?”

                He stares hard at the floor.

                “I apologize for worrying you,” he says at length, and he chooses his words carefully but it hurts when he speaks them. “It will not happen again.”

                After a long moment, she sighs. She tries to say something, but she shakes her head instead.

                “Forget it,” she says, standing.

                He might be afraid of what it means to keep her close, but that moment in which she is walking away terrifies him.

                When she reaches his door he says, “Danarius was forced to leave me on Seheron.”

                She pauses. A glance up tells him that her hand rests on the doorframe, her face turned to look at him over her shoulder. Her hair is thrown into a messy bun at the back of her head, the curve of her neck framed by the light in the hallway.

Her lips are parted, a question hanging on them. He stares at them, at her, and he knows now that he has caught her he has to keep going or to let her slip away for good.

                “The city was under attack by the Qunari,” he says, “and I managed to get Danarius to a ship. There was no room for a slave.”

                His mouth is dry and he has to pause.

                He can see her lips twist into a smile. She closes the door, slowly. “He must have hated that.”

                She comes back to the mattress and sits next to him, and he tells her everything. He stares at his hands the entire time, thinking that if he looks back up at her she will be horrified, that he’ll lose his nerve.

                He tells her of the Fog Warriors finding him, of his life with them. Their fight for the freedom of their home, how he admires them still for it, how he joined in their fight against the Qunari and Tevinter alike, how they bowed to no one.

                “It ended,” Fenris says at length, “as I always knew it would. Danarius found me. They... fought for me.” Even now his face still twists as he remembers it. “Danarius was injured in the fight and he ordered me to kill them.”

                His hands are shaking. She reaches over and tries to hold them, but she hasn’t heard everything yet, he hasn’t properly warned her yet, so he launches to his feet and goes to his window. He parts the curtains just enough to peer outside, long enough to satisfy himself that no one is watching.

                “So I did,” he says, letting the curtain fall. Not looking at Hawke.

                When the silence between them is almost unbearable, Hawke says, “He held that much over you?”

                He starts to pace what little space there is in his room. “It... felt inevitable. My master had returned and this... this fantasy life was over. But when it was done, I looked at their bodies and I... I couldn’t…” He struggled to find the right words, but failed, his shoulders dropping, his face looking again to the floor. “I ran. I have been running ever since.”

                “Fenris,” she says. He hears her stand behind him, try to approach him. He hears several failed attempts for her to say something, anything, but they fall flat.

                He turns around and faces her, but he is still unable to raise his head very high, to look at her properly. His steals quick, tentative glances of her face, but he cannot bear to meet her gaze for long. Of all things there is pity there, and he’s not sure that’s better than disgust.

                He looks down at the backs of his hands. The lyrium under his skin stirs, ever so slightly, and there is a hum under his skin as they begin to glow.

                “I told you before,” he says, “I have no memory of my life before these markings. Before I was made into… this. I could not imagine freedom, I still don’t...”

                He looks back up at Hawke, forcing his shoulders squared, his head up, forcing himself to meet her gaze. His lips twist into a snarl, all defence, his body moving on its own to protect himself from a threat he can’t fight.

                “I have no memory of anything gentle, Hawke,” he tells her. “And I have never dared to want anything more than my own survival.”

                There is a mere step between them. She closes the space without hesitating, and she twines the fingers of a hand in his; his relief at her touch is staggering.

                “Thank you for telling me,” she says. A rare moment when humour is gone from her voice.

                Fenris just stares into her eyes.

                She reaches up and cups his face with her hand, and though she’s delicate the heel of her hand brushes the lines of lyrium that curl at the tip of his chin. He takes a single, shaken breath, the lyrium flares brighter, and she kisses him.

                Fenris has been so sure until this moment that he does not know how to kiss without being ordered, without a threat hanging over his head. He has not been capable of imagining this moment with Hawke, has thought that he would be clumsy, unsure.

                His body, however, seems to remember what it wants as soon as her lips touch his.

                He deepens the kiss with a sharp intake of breath, and a soft gasp escapes her throat. The sound of it goes right to his core as her hands grasp the back of his head, her fingers knotting in his hair. His hands find her hips and he guides her, pushes her against the wall, and she starts to suck on his bottom lip.

                Her lips accidentally brush against the lyrium there and it sends a shot of heat through the lines carved on his body, and it’s warm and bright and a moan escapes his throat. Hawke does it again, deliberately, and his voice deepens into a growl. Her hands wander forward, her thumbs running along the lines on his neck that curl up just under his chin and he gasps against her lips, the gentlest of her touches vibrating along his whole body. It’s too much and it’s not enough, and his eyes roll back in his head as her hands start to follow the lines down his neck, so slowly.

                Overwhelmed, his whole body humming with pleasure and want, his knees start to go weak from her attentions. He feels Hawke smirk against his lips and when her hands reach his shoulders she turns him, and the backs of his heels touch his mattress. He falls on the bed, and there’s something hard against his back when he lands so he lets go of her long enough to shove it to the floor before she’s on top of him, her lips picking up where her hands left off, her kisses gentle but sure on his skin, her eyes glancing up at him, dark with lust and a wicked curve to her mouth.

                She is lit only by the light of his lyrium and the faint moonlight coming through the thin curtains, and he thinks she is perfect but he does not know how to say it.

                Just as her fingers curl around the waistband of his sweatpants, her kisses drawing lower, the most awful noise comes from the floor next to them. They both startle, Hawke jumping up into a seated position as Fenris nearly leaps to his feet at the noise. When it happens a second time he realises that it’s his phone, buzzing on the false wood floor, and he laughs a little to offset his panic. Hawke joins him, rearranging her clothing, and Fenris picks up the phone before sitting up properly.

                “My boss,” he says, scowling.

                “Seriously? Leave it.”

                He answers it. “Yes?”

                Hawke pouts and sits next to him on the bed, making a show of running her fingers through her hair and unbuttoning her flannel shirt. He blushes when he glances over and sees the top of her bra, red and lacy. He’s barely listening to what the manager is saying on the phone.

                “Is Aevalle feeling any better?” his manager asks, and Fenris almost groans with embarrassment at what he and Hawke have been doing with his friend half-dead in the other room.

                “She is still unwell,” he says. “I don’t think I can leave her.”

                Hawke’s eyes go wide, as if the same thing has just gone through her head. She starts to button her shirt back up.

                “We just had a fifteen-top walk in and there’s one server...”

                Fenris sighs. “There is nothing I can do.”

                Hawke grabs the phone from him. Fenris is too shocked to protest.

                “Fenris and Aevalle haven’t had a day off for three weeks, they’re overworked and under compensated, so maybe if you hired a dishwasher and a couple servers you wouldn’t have run them both into the ground and you wouldn’t be in this position.”

                She hangs up the phone, and stares at it in her hand for a long moment.

                “Did I just get you fired?” she asks, eyes wide with horror, and Fenris can’t help but laugh.

                Varric knocks on the door before he opens it, and the light spilling in from the hallway makes them both cringe.

                “Hey, Broody, your boss just called Aevalle...”

                Fenris stands, surprised to find himself still smiling a little. He takes the phone from Varric and slips out of his room into the hallway, making apologies he doesn’t really mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ar tu’suledin - I still endure (basically “I’m fine” but kind of passive aggressive)  
> Tel’ama’in. - Don’t keep me here  
> Na ama ir har’el - You have such a fright  
> Abelas – Usually spoken as "Ir abelas" to express sorrow/humility/a request for forgiveness. Aevalle drops the "Ir" here purposefully, but the reason is unclear.
> 
> There's plot in this fic somewhere I swear
> 
> Fenris is at least a little drunk when he tells Hawke about Seheron in DA2. Sleep deprived with fried nerves is the same thing, right?
> 
> I hate re using game dialogue but I guess I sort of got myself into this situation. Whoops. Also, I dropped one of the pairings from the main list, if anyone's noticed, just because it's actually not going to be as big a part of the fic as I intended it to--it'll come up, but uh wow not for like a million chapters at this rate. And I'll feel like a huge troll for how long it'll take to get to that point. Oh well.


	6. New Message from Varric Tethras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update today, make sure you've read the previous chapter

_New message from Varric Tethras_

-{ Okay now that you are presumably not driving

-{ Please tell me you were not fucking Broody in the  
    next room

-{ While Daisy and I were dealing with Bluebird

-{ Please tell me those were not the noises I was  
    hearing

                -{ Oh fuck, Varric

                -{ I’ve got it bad

-{ That was not the reassurance I was counting on

-{ You are a terrible friend and I’m never forgiving you

                -{ Varric they’re both so fucked up

-{ Yes what was your first clue

-{ Hello I’m an adorable Dalish hunter here’s my  
    cousin, the escaped Tevinter slave who can pull  
    people’s hearts out of their chests

-{ Just kidding he’s not my cousin I just keep him  
    around because of his winning personality

-{ And because he doubles as a flash light when he’s  
    angry

-{ I’m going to be deliberately vague about the fire  
    that gave me this horrible scar during our trust circle

-{ And then I’m going to refuse to sleep for weeks on  
    end and babble about Dalish gods coming to get me

-{ Just tell me to stop if any of this sounds at all familiar

                -{ Varric please I’m having a huge moment here

-{ Did you or did you not fuck the elf

                -{ I was about to

-{ Andraste’s tits woman

                -{ Varric he literally told me about how he murdered a  
                   bunch of people because some piece of shit magister  
                   told him to

                -{ And then I tried to fuck him

-{ What the fuck is wrong with you

                -{ What the fuck is wrong with me

                -{ Varric the noises he was making

                -{ As soon as we are done with this very important chat  
                    I’m going to go do something about how his voice  
                    makes me feel

-{ We have talked about how much information I  
    need regarding your private time

                -{ I was so mad Varric

                -{ I was so angry he was upset and he wouldn’t tell me  
                  anything

                -{ And I tried to walk away

                -{ I really tried Varric

                -{ But he was looking at me

                -{ Maker damn his eyes he was looking at me like he wasn’t  
                  brave enough to look at me

                -{ Fuck I’m going to have to do something about those eyes too

-{ AGAIN WITH THE

-{ Hawke we have established that I am the last person  
     to ask about relationship advice

                -{ I can’t ask anyone else

-{ There are plenty of perfectly stable people in your life  
    to go to for this sort of thing

-{ Like

                -{ Yeah I see those dots appearing and disappearing Tethras

-{ How is it possible that all of our friends are  
    complete fuck ups

                -{ Really I think it was only a matter of time before we  
                  realised this

-{ I had so much money on Aevalle being stable  
    and innocent

-{ That girl is making me a very poor man

-{ Oh wait

-{ Aveline’s not a fuck up

                -{ Yes I’m going to tell the chief of police that I want to suck  
                  the dick of an escaped slave while he makes a lightshow  
                  on the walls with literal lyrium embedded in his skin right  
                  after he talks about murdering people

                -{ I can imagine that conversation would go well

-{ What did I say

                -{ Sorry man

                -{ But I wasn’t kidding I am horny as fuck right now

-{ Okay I’m going to regret asking but Sparkler and  
    I have a bet on this

                -{ Of course you do

-{ Did he seriously light up?

                -{ Only like a motherfucking Satinalia tree

-{ You know I really shouldn’t have bet against a mage  
   on anything regarding lyrium

-{ I must have an addiction to losing money

-{ That is a very specific niche market you’ve picked  
    out for yourself there Hawke

                -{ Tell me about it

                -{ Kissing his tattoos was like

                -{ I can’t even describe it

                -{ They’re warm

                -{ And

                -{ When I kissed them he looked at me like he was shocked, Varric

                -{ Shocked that it could feel good

                -{ Doesn’t that just break your goddamn heart?

-{ Hawke

-{ For once in our very strange relationship I am going  
    to be 100% serious with you

-{ This is a really bad idea

                -{ Don’t I fucking know it

                -{ Varric I’m in way too deep now

                -{ Way too fucking deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to have two text message chapters this close to each other it just sort of happened. Don't blame me I'm not in control any more.


	7. A Moment of Vulnerability

Merrill is waiting by his locker when he gets into school the next day, and Fenris almost doubles back and waits for her to leave. But she sees him and her eyes light up with recognition. Her features are sunken with worry, and Fenris knows he cannot run away from her now, knows what this conversation will be about.

                “I’m worried about Aevalle,” she says as he opens the locker.

                “You are not alone in that,” Fenris says, dryly.

                “Oh good,” Merrill says, her shoulders slumping.

                Fenris rolls his eyes but says nothing.

                “I know things are difficult for you both at the restaurant right now,” she continues, “but I think something is very wrong with Aevalle. She needs to stay home and rest. Your manager will understand, right?”

                “She will not,” Fenris says, taking off his jeans. A quick glance at Merrill tells him she is averting her gaze, chewing on her lip in thought. “I thought you were supposed to be in the lab.”

                “I told Chef Blackwall I needed to go to the bathroom and we just put everything in the proofer, he won’t wonder where I’ve gone for at least twenty minutes.”

                Fenris frowns, stepping into those awful checkered pants. “Then what is everyone else doing?”

                “When I left, Aevalle was standing by the ovens watching them rotate while she spaced out, Dorian got stuck organizing the cooler and Hawke and Varric were cleaning out the deep fryer because they dumped three kilos of sugar in it.”

                “Why did they do that?”

                “To see what would happen.”

                “What—” There is a slightly horrified expression on Merrill’s face, and Fenris decides he doesn’t need to know. He takes off his shirt. “Never mind. You were saying?”

                Merrill scratches a clump of dried up dough off her hand and flicks it away before she responds. “I just—last night, Aevalle asked me to perform a rite for her, and I’m not sure she’s in the right frame of mind for it.”

                Fenris feels the skin on the back of his neck twitch as he ties his necktie with deft fingers. “What kind of rite?”

                His expression must be something else because Merrill actually backs a step up. “It’s—a Dalish ritual that is meant to protect the participant from Fen’harel. It normally requires days of meditation and being grounded in the protection of the clan… And, well.”

                Her hand goes to her arm, where a white sleeve covers the marks she showed them in the cabin.

                Fenris’ lip curls. _Blood magic_ , he wants to say, but Chef Cullen walks past them in the hallway, whistling, and he hurries his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, eager to hide the lyrium markings up and down his back.

                “Good morning Fenris.”

                “Good morning Chef.”

                When he leaves, Merrill looks at Fenris strangely. “You can sound very polite when you want to.”

                His fingers are rapidly fastening the buttons on his jacket. “The ritual, Merrill.”

               “Sorry. The problem is we’re not really a clan, just her and I, and it involves the Fade and… it can be very dangerous. And I’ve never done it on my own… So I said no.”

                Fenris feels his shoulders lighten with relief and his stomach turn with worry, simultaneously.

                “And you have come to me because?”

                Merrill hesitates. “Her hand,” she says. “It’s not just a burn scar, is it?”

                There is the sound of students coming down the stairs, and Fenris glances at the clock. “I will be late if I do not go now,” he tells her.

                “Fenris, she—”

                He slams his locker harder than he means to. The students passing them in the hall stop chatting to look at him, and he glares until they continue, moving faster than before.

                “We have managed without help before you came along,” Fenris says. His voice feels raw in his throat and he knows he is glowering at her, but the truth has backed him into a corner and he won’t go down without a fight.

                “I know,” she says. “I’m just trying to—”

                “It is not welcome,” he says, the words coming out in a low snarl, and he turns on his heel and heads back to the stairs, leaving her standing in the hallway.

 

Saturday rolls around and Fenris has never been more ready to sleep in his life. When he and Aevalle stumble through the door in the early hours of the morning—miraculously and unfortunately not fired—he sets his phone alarm so that he will be awake on time for his shift, and not a minute earlier.

                So when he gets a text message at nine in the morning, he wants to ignore it. But just as he starts to fall asleep again he gets another, and another, so he rolls back over and grabs his phone off the floor with a sigh. _New message from Hawke_ , the screen reads.

                Anyone else and he would have put the phone on sleep mode in retaliation. But he finds himself smiling, strangely, and he feels a slight hum in the lyrium on his skin before he opens the message.

-{ Hey you free today?

-{ I mean obvs you have work later

-{ I just need a ride and a buddy today

-{ Not that you’re my buddy

-{ Also I mean a ride in a car

-{ I mean you driving

-{ Me places

-{ Shit

-{ Normally I’m trying to seduce you but not right now

-{ Later definitely

-{ Fenris? You awake?

                -{ dont u have a car

-{ Back to partial sentences I see

-{ No emergencies today?

                -{ the day is still young

-{ I like that attitude

-{ Anyway my car broke down

-{ And Carver is being a tit

-{ Which is news to no one

-{ And I have some errands to run

-{ And I was hoping you would maybe drive me?

-{ I’ll buy you breakfast

                -{ just breakfast?

-{ Well if you play your cards right

-{ We can maybe make out in the back seat of your car

                -{ my cards?

-{ Like for example

-{ How crazy attractive is your bedhead

-{ And are you willing to narrate some choice passages for me?

-{ Who are we kidding

-{ I could get off on you reading trade calc

                -{ trade calc?

-{ Oh right you guys don’t have to worry about formulas

-{ Shoulda been a cook

-{ But hey if you’re willing to whisper sweet bakers’ percentages in my ear

-{ Then I will be happy to educate you

-{ ANYWAY you’ve gotta be up by now

-{ Probably in more ways than one

-{ I’m walking from the train station

-{ I will be severely disappointed if I get to your building before you pick me up

                When Fenris opens his bedroom door, shoving a well worn sweater over his head, Aevalle is leaning against the wall in the hallway, his keys in her hand and a smirk on her exhausted face. He endures the smirk and grabs the keys from her, rolling his eyes. She seems lucid enough to leave to her own devices for the morning, at least, and it’s a relief.

                “You going to brush your hair?” she says as he struggles to get his feet in his sandals.

                “It’s a card,” Fenris says.

                “I have no idea what that means. Your pants are undone.”

                He looks down long enough to zip up, and then he is unlocking their apartment door.

                “Have good sex!” she yells down the hallway after him.

                Hawke is a scant two blocks away when he pulls over, and she leans in his open window to appraise him for a minute. It’s still early enough for there to be a fine mist in the air, and the hood of her dark sweater is pulled over messy hair and minimal makeup, her jeans baggy and well-worn. The spark in her eyes as she looks him over still makes him feel warm, and he thinks of her lips on his markings.

                “How is the bedhead?” he asks.

                She only smirks and lets herself in the car.

                They stop at a florist first, and Fenris thinks she’ll ask him to wait in the car but she inclines her head and he follows her in.

                Apparently she is known here, and as she leans on the counter to chat with the elf who works there he hangs back, staring at a small cactus as if he might be interested in it. He sends furtive glances up at them, notices the woman behind the counter giving him an approving look each time.

                At first he think he’s just there to for Hawke to show off—and he’s not sure if he minds that if he’s going to be honest—but then the florist comes out from the back with an absolutely monstrous arrangement of plants that Fenris can’t even name, and he has to help Hawke get it into the car.

                “Isn’t it hideous?” she says with glee when he buckles up.

                “There is something seriously wrong with you,” he mutters, but he’s smiling.

                “What was that?”

                “It’s atrocious.”

                “Perfect!”

                They stop at a breakfast place to eat, and they sit right in the middle in the restaurant and Fenris is pretty sure everyone is staring but Hawke proceeds to construct a tower out of creamers so he just watches that instead, allowing a small smile.

                “Merrill said you put a kilo of sugar in the fryer?”

                Her eyes light up.

                “It was supposed to be three and it was _amazing_ ,” she says. “I mean we got like a cup in before the whole thing just lit up. Did you know the school has a top of the line fire suppression system? Fire truck didn’t even have to show up, everything just got covered in foam.”

                Fenris nods, his eyebrows raised.

                “So anyway Varric and I were there till four yesterday cleaning it up. And then Chef Blackwall gave us the longest lecture about ‘professionalism’ and ‘not fucking everything up.’ Like he’s not going to tell that story to every other class he has for the rest of his life.”

                “Perhaps he wants your legacy to the school to be more than that student who lit the kitchen on fire just to see what would happen?”

                She levels him with the most serious look she can manage, which is significantly more ridiculous than her normal expression. Fenris snorts into his drink at the sight of it.

                “Fenris, that is _precisely_ the legacy I want to leave to the school.”

                He laughs like an idiot, and it’s embarrassing so he tries to cover it with a cough at the end. She pretends not to have noticed, but she’s still smirking when the waitress brings their pancakes.

                Their next stop is a place that sells chocolate, and Fenris is starting to wonder what’s up but Hawke drags him in anyway. The dwarf woman at the counter recognises Hawke and calls her by name—her last name, no one seems to know what her actual name is. Fenris tries to hang back and look disinterested but he’s introduced, and while Hawke chats he’s fed enough free samples to make his stomach sick.

                The box of chocolates Hawke and Fenris leave the place with is discreet but large, and Hawke spends several minutes cramming it into the flower arrangement. She doesn’t stop messing with it until Fenris assures her it can’t be seen for the third time.

                Fenris parks the car in the hospital parkade, and Hawke actually looks nervous.

                “Okay,” she says, fiddling with the drawstring of her hoodie.

                He looks at her strangely.

                “I just need your help to bring the flowers in. You can... wait in the hall if you want to.”

                He smiles a little, and he feels brave enough to reach out and touch her hand where it rests on her lap. It’s the first time he’s dared to touch her all morning, and her fingers twine around his like it’s a relief, like she was worried.

                He carries the flowers and the hidden chocolate into the hospital for her, and half of the staff there seems to recognise her. The templars who hang around the hallways in their crisp pressed suits and slicked back hair nod to her as she passes—Fenris wonders if they know, but the gesture seems too easy, too friendly—and many of the nurses laugh when they see Fenris carrying the flower arrangement, with the ease of having seen such a display many times.

                They stop before a door and an old human woman in a doctor’s coat with a mage insignia on it greets them, smiling warmly.

                “Miss Hawke,” she says.

                “Wynne,” Hawke greets her.

                “Is this the young man I’ve heard so much about?”

                “Yes he is,” Hawke says, grinning. “Fenris, this is Doctor and Senior Enchanter Wynne. She’s visiting from Fereldan.”

                “A pleasure,” Fenris says, trying to mean it. He is glad the flowers are heavy so he does not have to shake her hand. The templars nearby make him feel simultaneously less and more uneasy. Is it his imagination that they look too closely at Hawke? Too closely at his lyrium markings?

                “I’ll speak with you in a minute,” Wynne says, “why don’t you let this poor young man put that... lovely bouquet down?”

                Fenris follows Hawke into the room. He has to peer around the bush he’s carrying until he sees the table beside the bed, the woman in the bed putting her book aside and smiling when she sees Hawke and the ridiculous bouquet.

                “Good morning, Marian,” she says. Fenris almost asks who the hell she’s talking to. “Is there a person behind all that shrubbery?”

                “Do they ever open your blinds in here?” Hawke says, her tone short and direct.

                Fenris blinks rapidly as she pulls the blinds back, then bends long enough to set the arrangement on the table.

                “Marian.”

                “We pay a lot of money for a private room with big windows, mom,” Hawke says.

                The woman on the bed bears little resemblance to Hawke. Her smile is patient, her features soft and totally without the sharp, precise lines of Hawke’s face. There is something about the cheekbones, about the way her eyes are set in her face, but Fenris can’t quite pinpoint it.

                “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

                She says _friend_ like she means something else, and Fenris is unsure of what to do with her scrutiny. He dislikes being looked at so closely, but her relation to Hawke means the attention is not due to any reason harmful to him. He thinks.

                Hawke sighs.

                “You must be Fenris,” Hawke’s mother says when no introductions are made. She holds out her hand and Fenris takes it, gently. “Leandra. Pleased to finally meet you.”

                Oh but she is frail. The chip on Carver’s shoulder makes more sense.

                “Miss Hawke?” the doctor calls from the doorway. “I’m ready for you now.”

                “Be nice, mom,” Hawke says.

                Fenris tries not to panic as she leaves him alone in the room with her mother. What happens if she asks how they met? How he enjoyed the cabin? Where he’s from? He almost pulls out his phone to text Aevalle and ask what a person is supposed to do when they meet the mother of the person they almost had sex with. Then he remembers that people aren’t supposed to use their phones in hospitals. Should he have turned his off?

                “So Fenris,” she says.

                He should have turned it off.

                “Marian says you’re in the cooking program.”

                “Yes,” he manages to say. He doesn’t even sound like he’s about to jump out the window and make a break for it.

                “Do you enjoy it?”

                He’s been around enough of the students who talk about what they’re learning like it’s _the dream_ , and he knows that’s the answer he’s supposed to give. “I like the work,” he says instead. “And it pays better than washing dishes.”

                She laughs, but she looks more like Carver than Hawke when she does.

                “Where are you from, Fenris?”

                The window plan is gaining appeal. He considers lying, but settles on, “I’m not sure.”

                “I see,” she says, smiling. “Family moved around a lot?”

                He shrugs.

                “There’s no need to be nervous,” she says, and the teasing is familiar enough that he smiles a little. “We all have a complicated past.”

                He drops his gaze to the floor. Then he looks to the doorway, to where Hawke is, and sees her standing in the hall speaking with the doctor. Unsmiling, jaw tight.

                “She’s very brave,” Leandra says, and Fenris snaps his gaze back down to the woman on the bed. She’s smiling as she looks up at him. “Marian is. She’s not used to having a problem she can’t fight.”

                Fenris looks back up again at Hawke. Her eyes are wide with something not unlike panic.

                “You’re dying,” Fenris says, harsher than he means to.

                “Aren’t we all?” She’s still smiling. “Pass me that box of chocolates Marian’s hidden so well in there.”

                Fenris obliges, and Leandra takes her time picking one, not even looking at the guide. When she chooses one, finally, she holds it out until Fenris takes it.

                “I promise they’re not poison,” she says after he stares at it.

                “They’re yours,” he says.

                She chuckles. “If I eat all of these, the nurses will notice my blood sugar spike and the whole ward will be in a panic. Please.”

                He wonders if his mother ever laughed like that—soft, sweet and low. It’s not a carefree laugh, but it’s comfortable.

                The ganache in the center of the chocolate tastes like passionfruit, sharp and sweet. He hasn’t touched the stuff since Seheron. He can almost hear the wind in the trees overhead, the crash of the surf, the laughter of the Fog Warrior who asked him for a kiss.

                “Thank you,” he says at length.

                “You’re such a serious young man,” she says, and he can see the cracks in her smile, the sadness as she looks at him.

                He wonders what expression must have crossed his face, but there is nothing to be done for it. A moment of vulnerability in front of a dying woman is forgivable, he supposes.

                “I think I’m supposed to grill you about your intentions with my daughter,” she says. “But I ran off with an apostate when I was your age so I suppose I can’t judge.”

                She sighs. Fenris tries to imagine the sort of person Leandra would elope with, and isn’t entirely sure.

                “Can you—can you promise me this, Fenris? If you’re still around after I die, will you be there for her?”

                He wonders if this is an odd request to make. He almost opens his mouth and tells her everything about himself, just to see if she takes it back.

                Hawke breezes back into the room, her eyes bright with anger and her smile strained, and Fenris never answers Leandra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they go make out in the back of Fenris' car.
> 
> I had my really stressful four-day final exam this week - and while I could go on about how perfect my creme caramel, chocolate box and opera slice were I'll just say I passed everything and I don't have to drop $300 to retake the exam (woohoo) so you all get a chapter in celebration.
> 
> Oh right trade calc - basically just math used for changing recipe sizes. And a bakers' percentage is a different way to write out a recipe/formula, where the weight of the flour in the recipe is listed at 100%, and everything else is given a percentage based on its proportion to the weight of the flour in the recipe. (TLDR: it's dry as fuck)
> 
> Also the best part about Fenris' texting style is that he had to go into the options and turn autocorrect off in order to make it work. He's still not that strong at reading/writing and it was way too stressful for him to have the phone constantly correcting his mistakes so he turned it off in retaliation and he's never turned it back on


	8. It's Under Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, there's some dialogue here that implies some self-harm tendencies/really unhealthy physical relationship stuff. Please message me if you'd like clarification or a quick summary of what section to avoid if you'd like to skip it.

Fenris goes into work that evening to find the manager showing a skinny, bare faced elf how to use the dishwasher, and Fenris’ shoulders slump with visible relief. He and Aevalle sit in his car when the restaurant is closed, for once, and Fenris is the one who calls Hawke, invites her out to celebrate. Aevalle calls Varric, who of course has the perfect place to go.

                It’s not the Hanged Man, for once, it’s a club—Fenris is shocked that it is not the kind with strippers. The music is loud and the whole place smells of sweat, alcohol and sex, and Aevalle wavers at the top of the stairs, clutching the handrail with both hands.

                “Are you well enough for this?” Fenris has to yell to be heard over the music.

                Aevalle yells back something in elven. He thinks it is a bad sign that she’s sweating already, a light sheen on her copper skin—He should have taken her home first, but she had begged. “It’s under control,” she yells after closing her eyes and clearing her mind. Her fist is clenched, covered in a black leather glove with no fingers.

                Dorian somehow is there before them, arguing with Bull at the bar over drinks. The giant Qunari is smirking at whatever they’re saying, and Fenris sees his hand moving up Dorian’s leg. Dorian looks angry, pleased, conflicted, lonely and wanting all at the same time. Isabella and Merrill have found each other, and they are both drunk enough that they are leaning so close when they speak, their lips almost touching.

                Is there something in the water, Fenris wonders, but not a one of them is drinking water. The music is loud and the bass rattles his bones, but he doesn’t want to leave anymore when Hawke arrives, Varric in tow. She’s done her makeup, painted her lips that blood red he likes best on her, and her top is cut low, her pants tight. He’s so used to seeing her in her whites or in loose flannel clothing that he’s almost forgotten what’s been underneath all along, and his skin feels warm when he sees her.

                Varric finds a table but Fenris isn’t sure why he bothers because Hawke pulls Fenris to the dance floor when she sees him. Aevalle stays with Varric but she recoils when he presses the back of his hand to her forehead, frowning.

                On the dance floor Hawke is not as she appears in his dreams, she is alive and her pulse flutters at his touch, she is not anyone’s captive and she wears that smirk with pride, whispers things that make even his ears hot. He has to control the lyrium, he can feel it humming on his skin as she grinds against him, and just when he feels it’s too much, he’s overwhelmed by her and the noise she takes his hand and they go grab some drinks and head back to the table, breathless.

                Aevalle’s ex is there, that Sera with the foul mouth who runs with the Jennys. They are close to one another, their lips turned upwards in snarls or something else as they yell whatever argument they are having that Fenris cannot hear. Varric arrives at the table at the same time, a large glass of water in his hand and a concerned expression on his face.

                “Sera,” Fenris yells, and the blonde elf whirls around and away from Aevalle, her hands raised.

                “I ain’t touchin nothing,” she says. “Bitch’s gone too elfy for me anyhow.” But there’s a flush on her cheeks that Fenris recognises, and he glares at her until she leaves.

                Aevalle is leaning back in the booth. He slips in beside her and presses the back of his hand to her forehead—she’s unbearably hot, her eyes lucid and a subtle flush on her dark cheeks. He knows the way her body’s coiled up, the promise of a fight and a fling with Sera bringing a feral grin to her lips.

                She says something in elven, forgetting again he will not understand her. Then she blinks and corrects herself. “It’s just a fuck, Fenris,” she murmurs, “just to forget, just a black eye and bruised wrists to ground me here, I promise. Don’t make me sleep now, _lethallin_ , I’ll be better in the morning.”

                She is not well enough. He should have forced the issue.

                “There are safer people for that,” he tells her.

                She throws her head back and laughs. “ _Ar tel’etha nuvenin_ ,” she brays aloud. “I don’t want anything gentle, Fenris, _threna isala_ , _lethallin_ , he finds me in dreams, he can’t see me like this I won’t let him.”

                “Did she take drugs or something?” Hawke asks behind him.

                “She has a crazy fever,” Varric said. “I left her alone for two seconds to get water, I swear.”

                Fenris reaches for Aevalle’s left hand—and she fights him. She yells and kicks at him and a few of them connect and her short nails dig into his skin, and he bears the worst of her lashing and grabs her wrist, grabs the glove and yanks it from her hand.

                Her scar is burning, green sparks casting out from it, and she curses at him in elven, in the Tevene she’s picked up from him, in Trade, in whatever is said around the kitchens, and she fights to get her fist out of his grip but he holds it low and out of sight—he knows Hawke and Varric can see it, knows by the stillness behind him, but the rest of the club doesn’t need to.

                “We’re going home,” he tells her, and she falls against him, shaking, burying her head in his shoulder. He can’t pull her glove back over her hand, the mark there is sparking too bright and just being close to it is making the lyrium hum and glow, so he pulls her out of the booth, lifting her up in his arms and she weighs so little. When was the last time she had a decent meal? Antivan takeout, weeks ago.

                In the night air she shivers in his arms, and she clings to him and will not let go.

                “Where’s your car?” Hawke asks.

                “Five blocks away.”

                “Mine’s around the corner. Come on.”

                “She needs a doctor,” Varric says, behind them.

                “ _Din,”_ she murmurs. “They’ll find me.” Then her hand sparks and she cries out, clutching it to her chest.

                “This is beyond a doctor,” Fenris growls. “Aevalle, where is he?”

                Her face is still buried in his neck, and she shakes her head furiously. “I won’t,” she says, “I can’t, I don’t know. _Lethallin_ don’t make me sleep again, don’t let the Dread Wolf take me.”

                They reach Hawke’s car, and Aevalle struggles as Fenris puts her in the back seat, and he has to climb in next to her to keep her there, keep her hands from the other door. Hawke and Varric get in the front, and Hawke starts the car.

                “Where are we going?” Fenris asks.

                “I have a friend,” she says, pulling away from the curb. “We can trust him.”

                “Blondie? Hawke I don’t think he can help with this.”

                “Varric just call him.”

                Hawke’s jaw is set in a firm line, and Varric pulls out his cell phone with a sigh.

 

There’s a light on outside the Darktown house, blue glass instead of clear, and Hawke pounds on the door until someone lets them in. The human is tall, with dark circles under his eyes and blonde hair, and he looks like he never sees the sun. He takes one look at Aevalle and he leads them further into the house, into a room that has the semblance of something medical. It has a bed and Fenris puts her on it, and although she fights him it is weak.

                “Hawke,” the man says, standing in the doorway, “I... might be out of my league on this.”

                “ _Lethallin_ ,” Aevalle calls, weakly. Fenris takes her right hand and holds it, hushing her.

                The man approaches, slowly, his gaze fixed on the green magic sparking from Aevalle’s hand. He takes it, very slowly, and his hands begin to glow with the pale blue of healing magic. Fenris flinches at it, but does not move.

                Aevalle spasms, suddenly, her back arching in the bed, and the magic in her scar sparks and hisses at the man’s touch, and then it launches up his arms and sparks all across his body—he yells, and he moves to step back but suddenly he stops. There’s a pulse or an aura or something, and Fenris feels all the lyrium in his body flare up. The man in front of him closes his eyes—and when he opens them again they are shining.

                “Fenris don’t!” Hawke yells, but Fenris charges the abomination—and a hand throws him aside like paper, the current of raw magic dancing across his lyrium, turning his vision white and overloading his senses. He doesn’t realise he’s against a wall until he slumps to the floor, his back against it. He can’t stand up, can’t do a thing as the abomination approaches Aevalle where she lies, twisting up in pain.

                “Justice,” Hawke is saying, “don’t hurt her, please. She’s a friend.”

                There is no demon named Justice, Fenris wants to say, struggling to stand.

                “ _Na Fen’harel enansal ama_ ,” the abomination says to Aevalle, with the blonde man’s voice and another, deeper one over top. “ _Vena’an?”_

                “ _Harin’an_ ,” she answers. “ _Hahren. Harellan._ ”The last is said with spite and pain, her expression twisted into something unreadable.

                “ _Ha’mi’in. Ma falon shala na._ ”

                “ _Ir tel’nuvena_ ,” she murmurs back. She shakes her head, but her eyelids are drooping, her voice growing weaker.

                Fenris watches the abomination pass its hand over her eyes, and she closes them, her breathing growing more laboured.

                The abomination closes its eyes, and then it staggers backwards until it hits the wall, arms flailing—and the man opens his eyes and they are not glowing, and his breathing is panicked, laboured.

                Fenris stands and goes to Aevalle. His body feels numb as the lyrium calms, finally, but he still shakes when he moves. His hands feel cold against her hot skin, but her breathing is the even and shallow pace of deep sleep.

                “What the fuck was that?” Varric asks.

                “I don’t know,” the man in the corner says with a groan.

                “Anders, what did Justice say to her?” Hawke asks. “Is she going to be okay?”

                “I don’t know,” he repeats, slowly standing again. Fenris watches him with narrow eyes. “He—she’s going to be fine. He says that someone will help her in the Fade.”

                “Who?” Varric blurts, not noticing Fenris clenching his jaw.

                Fenris says, the distaste of it curling his tongue as he speaks, “Some dream walking apostate who cursed her with this mark and abandoned her to live with it.”

                “A _somniari_ ,” Anders clarifies. “Must be incredibly powerful, to have Justice so rattled.”

                “Dream walking?” Varric exhales and scratches his head furiously. “Well, shit, do we just wait around until he knocks at the door? Maybe we can all watch Broody punch him in the face, that would be satisfying.”

                “Would that I could,” Fenris says. “I have never met him.”

                “Then how can we help her?” Hawke asks.

                He knows they are all staring at him. Fenris shifts uncomfortably—he does not trust the abomination in the room, does not trust himself to tell the story without flying into a rage. It’s not his to tell.

                “Now that she is asleep, it will resolve itself,” he says with a finality he doesn’t feel. He does not move from her bedside.

                “That’s it? All she needs is a nap?” Hawke approaches Fenris, her arms crossed over her chest. “Why didn’t she just sleep and let this dream guy help her?”

                He feels himself scowling, the truth of it all knotted up in his chest.

                Aevalle launches herself off the bed with a yell, the mark sparking and burning—the whole room is green for a horrifying moment, and she clutches her hand to her chest, panting, her face twisted into a snarl as green lightning envelops her, and then suddenly dies out.

                She looks at Fenris.

                “ _Garas Lethallin_ ,” she says.

                “No,” he starts, but she’s shoved past Hawke and Varric and she’s out the door.

                “Stay here,” he tells them, following her. He notices her work shoes discarded in the hallway where she’s kicked them off, the front door hanging open.

                “Like hell!” Hawke yells behind him, and Fenris just keeps running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ar tel’etha nuvenin, threna isala, - I don’t want safe, need to wake up.  
> Na Fen’harel enansal ama. Vena’an – You keep/protect the Dread Wolf’s blessing. Where did you get it?  
> Harin’an. Hahren. Harellan – The place where fear dwells. Respected elder. Traitor/Trickster.  
> Ha’mi’in. Ma falon shala na – Rest/Let old conflicts lie. My friend will protect you.  
> Ir tel’nuvena – I really don’t want that.  
> Garas - Come
> 
> Oh hello did the plot show up? About time.


	9. Patience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some references to past physical/sexual abuse without being specific.

When it rains on Seheron, not even the Qunari can best the fog warriors. They have lived in the rain as far back as their stories can recall, and the harder it pours, the more it awakens something primal in them. Their steps and their fists are wildest in the most terrifying of storms, and they laugh as the rain washes the blood of their enemies from their skin.

                Fenris stands under the canopy of trees just off the beach and watches the waves roll in the distance, lightning sparking across the clouds but not touching down, nothing to burn in the ocean. He knows the noise is coming but it makes him flinch when it does, half a heartbeat later, and he clenches his fists against the memory of it sparking across his skin, igniting the lyrium and making his throat raw for screaming.

                It’s his first true storm here, and he wants so badly to hide away from it. Even under the cover of trees his clothes are soaked through, and he can’t feel the tips of his ears any more—but he can’t hide away in the trailer he’s sharing with two other men. He tried that, only to discover the full extent of their relationship with one another.

                It’s brought up memories. He closes his eyes and shakes them away again, heart hammering.

                He hears his name called. Looking up, he sees a man approaching—he recognises the man instantly. He is the one who found him on the beach, frightened and bleeding out. Fenris has seen him staring, but he doesn’t know his name.

                He knows how this is supposed to go. He wonders why Fenris out all alone instead of enjoying the party back at camp. Fenris knows he is supposed to tell the truth, but he clamps his mouth shut and stares instead. The man keeps going, somehow not discouraged by his silence, and he draws closer, a sly smile on his features.

                He is not unattractive, even with the thick scar over his right eye. He is lean muscle and dark freckles, a tattoo that curls under the front of his shirt, drawing the eye down.

                “You know,” he says at length, “Among the fog warriors, battles in the rain always lead to one thing.”

                Fenris’ heart is hammering in his chest. This is it, he thinks. The price of his aid two weeks ago. His mouth is dry, waiting for the first blow.

                The man raises an eyebrow and asks if he might kiss him.

                Danarius asks him many questions, but there is only pain if the answer is anything but the right one, so Fenris nods, just slightly, not trusting his voice.

                He kisses Fenris. He is warm and his touch is so light but Fenris flinches, still.

                The man looks at Fenris curiously, brow furrowed.

                Fenris realises that he’s slipped, and the fear is plain on his face. He schools it immediately, clenching his fists. He opens his mouth to apologize, to beg forgiveness, but something passes across the fog warrior’s face that he’s never seen before.

                The man takes a step back. Fenris wonders if it’s a trap.

                “Shit,” he says. He reaches a hand out, as if to touch Fenris, but then pulls away.

               Fenris is trying to figure out if the look in his eyes means a fight, as it is not one he’s seen directed at himself before.

                “What the fuck did they do to you?” the man says, softly. Then he sighs and rubs the back of his head. “Come on. You’ll catch your death out here.”

                The man leads him back to the circle of trailers. He sits Fenris down and wraps him in a blanket, does not make him take his clothes off. He gives him something warm to drink, and then he leaves Fenris alone in the trailer with his thoughts and the shaking of his hands.

 

Fenris eventually has to stop and catch his breath, his hands on his knees for support as his body shakes and the lyrium hums. It’s starting to rain, delicate drops falling on his skin, and Fenris blinks them from his eyelashes as he looks around for any sign of Aevalle.

                He hears footsteps behind him, and then Hawke is stumbling to a stop beside him, panting.

                “Shit,” she manages to say between breaths. “She runs fast.”

                Fenris has a hundred retorts for her, but he can’t manage to say any of them.

                “Any idea where she’s gone?”

                He shakes his head. He tries to get a better look at their surroundings, standing in the flickering light of an old light post. This area of Darktown stands in the shadows of the rest of Kirkwall, the high rises that make up Lowtown blotting out the stars and the moon. Darktown is mostly comprised of old and rotting houses and half-built apartment buildings, half-attempted waves of gentrification abandoned just long enough to encourage the growth of moss. Fenris can make out figures huddled against half-constructed walls and warming themselves in the remnants of fires lit in garbage cans. Sometimes their eyes glint, but their features are sunken in and the straight lines of their long ears fallen just slightly with disease and hunger.

                “Hey, Champion,” he hears someone say. “Looking pretty good there, Hawke. How’s the Hightown life?”

                Fenris tenses as an elf approaches them, smiling. She appears unarmed at first glance, but Fenris thinks she might have a pistol tucked into the back of her belt at least. The night is cold, but not cold enough for the heavy leather jacket she’s wearing.

                “Not as cushy as you might think,” Hawke says. “Apparently comfortable couches are not fashionable.”

                Athenril smirks. “Shame,” she says. Fenris sees three elves flanking them in the shadows where it is too dark for Hawke to notice them. “Who’s your friend, Hawke?”

                “We do not have time for this,” he says.

                Athenril’s eyebrows rise at his accent. “Never took you as one to harbour escaped slaves.”

                Hawke glances at Fenris. “How did you—”

                Athenril snorts. “How many free elves from Tevinter do you know?”

                Beside him, all of Hawke’s bravado stills for a moment. “Athenril, we’re looking for our friend. Can it wait?”

                “Was your friend that _parkour_ loving Dalish with the glowing hand?”

                “Uh—” Hawke and Fenris look at each other. “Yes,” Hawke says. “The um, _parkour_ is new. And the glowing hand too. Well to me anyway. You know, we had a trust circle thing out in the wilderness and that was totally the time to get all the big secrets out in the open—”

                “Where is she?” Fenris snaps.

               Athenril gives Fenris a long look up and down. “Turn back, Hawke,” she says. “I know we parted on uncertain terms, but trust me in this—whatever this is, you’re better off walking away.”

                “You’re kidding, right?” Hawke’s posture is loose, but the smirk she wears is dangerous. “Athenril we’ve done some naughty things, but you always knew when to say no when it mattered.”

                There is something haunted in the woman’s expression, just for a moment. “I didn’t know she was your friend,” she says. “I’m sorry, Hawke.”

                “Oh not yet you’re not.” Hawke’s grin is one of a cornered predator. “But you will be.”

                The elves in the shadows move, and the lyrium in Fenris’ skin flares as he whirls to protect Hawke’s back, his movements a blur that leave lines of blue-white light in the night air behind him. Hawke’s fire lights up the night behind him, evaporates the rain in the air around her, the warmth of a barrier crackles against his flesh, and his fist connects with a face and Hawke laughs.

                Athenril is yelling, her words a blur in Fenris’ battle rage. He feels bullets bounce off the barrier, their ricochets a dull echo in is ears and the guns snap to pieces in his fists when he grabs them. He doesn’t even have to kill anyone—Fenris snarls so fiercely and Hawke’s flames burn so brightly that many run before the fight has even begun, and at the sight of a few pistols crumpled like cans in his grip the rest join them.

                Athenril herself is not so lucky. Hawke blocks her exit with a wall of fire, hot and unyielding, and Fenris is there with a flash of lyrium, his hand around her neck and his arm pulled back, fist ready to tear through her chest.

                “Where is she?” he snarls. She struggles against him.

                “You two really are oblivious.” She looks as if she is about to spit in his face, but reconsiders at the last second. “Is this what joining the ranks of the privileged gets you, Champion? If it’s not on the news you won’t notice the world’s ending? There are holes in thin air, things are pouring out that we only hear about in stories, and if it’s not on the front page you have no idea.” She laughs, and it rings hollow in Fenris’ ears.

                Fenris’ grip on her neck grows tighter, and Athenril chokes on his grip.

                “That’s the way of Kirkwall,” she says, her words clotting up like blood around his fist. “The poor die in droves and the wealthy remain blissfully unaware. So if some shem mage tells me that they’ll help us if I give them a free path to your friend, then I’ll take the coin they give me.”

                They can hear the screeching wheels of a large vehicle coming around the block. Fenris looks long enough to see a large, dark truck with a very large Qunari crouching in the bed. The sounds of his bickering with Dorian are almost as loud as the revving engine. They were all impossibly drunk when Fenris saw them last—who could be driving?

                The truck screeches to a halt beside them, and Cassandra leans out the window.

                “Do you frequently invite people to parties at which you leave early?” she asks Hawke, scowling.

                “Cassandra,” Hawke says with a grin. “Thank the Maker you are such a wet blanket.”

                “I’m happy to help.” Her tone suggests the opposite.

                “How did you find us?” Fenris growls.

                Varric leans over Cassandra from the seat beside her. “Relax Broody, there’s an app for that. We followed the GPS on Hawke’s phone.”

                “Where’s Aevalle?” Merrill calls, rolling down the back window. “Varric says she’s in trouble.”

                “We know!” Fenris snarls. Athenril gags as his grip tightens.

                “Fenris, love, didn’t know you had that in you,” Isabella slurs from the seat beside Merrill. Then she makes a face, winks, and says, “Blue.”

                “This is not important!”  He throws Athenril to the ground, his lyrium flaring in his rage. “Spare me your rambling about holes in the sky and the life of the downtrodden, I know it better than you could dream. Tell us where she has gone, if you wish to live.”

                “Holes in the sky?” The abomination’s voice trails out from the back seat, and Fenris almost groans.

                “You brought that _thing_ with you?”

                “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I needed your approval to come help Hawke’s friend.”

                Fenris whirls on the truck, but he cannot lean in and grab the abomination by the neck like he wants to—Merrill and Isabella are in the way. He knows he would look silly stalking around the vehicle just to argue with the man, so he’s stuck where he stands, fuming. “You are the reason she ran off!”

                “Well I’m sorry I can’t control your crazy elf girlfriend with the magic hand!”

Fenris is vaguely aware of Merrill saying, “Don’t be silly, Anders, they’re cousins.”

                “You clearly control nothing, not with a demon sharing your flesh.”

                “I’m trying to say I know where might have gone, you mindless thug. Or you can go back to choking someone to death, that seems to be working out just fine for you.”

                “Both of you stop it,” Hawke snaps. “Anders, can you take us there?”

                Behind them, Athenril is gasping for breath on the pavement.

                “Count yourself lucky your dead body would be too much trouble,” Hawke says. “I won’t see your face again, Athenril.”

                She does not give the other woman time to respond. She turns on her heel and climbs into the bed of the truck, pausing only to look back at Fenris, her gaze narrowed and commanding.

                It takes less convincing than Fenris will admit to get him into the bed of the truck. Crammed in with Hawke, Bull and Dorian, his rage has nowhere to go and it simmers with the glow of the lyrium. He pretends not to notice Bull and Dorian shifting away from him, ever so slightly. Let them be uneasy around him, he thinks at first, but then Hawke moves closer to him, as delicately as she dares with the speed of the truck.

                “We’ll find her, Fenris,” she says.

                The rain begins to fall harder, and it isn’t long before they’re all soaked through by the rain and the water thrown up by the wheels of the truck as they drive through streets where nothing is draining properly. Dorian complains, Bull teases him, and Hawke is silent, watching Fenris’ face.

 

Aevalle is being led down a hallway with tall, strong human men on either side of her. Her hands are bound, she’s wearing a blindfold and her head is still bleeding, but when the anchor on her hand sparks she can feel them recoil from it in fear. She would grin if there wasn’t a cacophony in her head, a thousand echoes clambering over one another for dominance over her thoughts.

                _Atisha melana’el_ , one of them urges while the next calls for swift action, and a hundred more cry out so loud and fierce that she stumbles. The sound of her bare feet slapping against the concrete floor echoes, but she’s held fast by her captors.

                “We won’t fall for that,” one of them tells her. Like how many weeks without proper sleep is all for a ruse.

                What would he think of her now, she wonders. So easily captured by a couple shems with clubs. She’s almost embarrassed.

                They continue down the hallway, and her captors speak with each other in Tevene. She’s learned a bit from Fenris, enough to be able to tell that they’re reporting to someone they’re afraid of, some _altus_ mage who represents a powerful magister. Not the usual Venatori agent they report to, and it has them worried.

                They pass through a doorway and outside to muddy earth and heavy rain. She tastes it on her lips and listens to the sound of its falling. She hears the rain pooling on the mud around them, the slap of it on solid surfaces in every direction. A courtyard, maybe, not a proper exit.

                She can hear the rift, too. The anchor burns harder on her hand at the proximity of it, and she feels the pulse of the tear in the veil calling to her—closed for now, shuddering but no demons piling through. She can feel their attention on her soul as if they’re hovering over her shoulder, breathing in her ear.

                Her captors release her in fear, yelling at the magic coming from her hand. She wavers without their support and falls to her knees. She wills the anchor to stifle, and the demons that push against the veil around her retreat, having lost her scent.

                A woman shouts at them, but they do not pick her up again. The woman is talking rapidly—on the phone, she seems to be responding to someone who isn’t there—and Aevalle can only make out bits and pieces. _Property_. _Debts owed. Venatori. Yes. After. Fenris._

                “Hadriana,” one of the men who caught her says.

                Aevalle knows the name, has heard it snarled in rages and whimpered in nightmares, and her lip curls in disgust.

                Hadriana hangs up the phone. “This is it?” she says in Trade. “The way the Venatori go on about you, I was expecting a demon, not a skinny little kid.”

                “ _Halam tu enna’an na, shemlen,_ ” Aevalle says slowly, the threat low and delicious in her voice.

                Hadriana sighs. “How charming. The rabbit thinks itself sophisticated. Let’s get this over with, I have other business in this miserable hell-hole of a city.”

                Her captors heave her up again, and she allows them to drag her toward the rift. She clenches her fist tight and ignores the screaming in her mind as she forces the anchor to be still. The veil practically bends around her as the spirits on the other side search for her, and she wonders how the shems don’t feel it in the pit of their stomachs like she does.

                She’s thrown to her knees just before the rift, its power making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. _Atisha melana’el_ , she tells herself, pleads with the mark on her hand. Patience.

                “Now then,” Hadriana says. “Why don’t you close this up for me, hm? Show me what that pretty little hand of yours can do.”

                Aevalle tells them that the blindfold and restraints are awfully rude. Only after does she realise she said it in elven. Fuck, she needs to sleep.

                She wavers in place as a cacophony of voices howl in defiance at the mere thought of it.

                Hadriana makes an impatient noise deep in her throat before she reaches down and grabs Aevalle by her hair and yanks her upright again. “Look, knife-ear,” she snaps. “I don’t really give a shit if you live or die, but I need these Venatori to help me bring some lost property home. So if you’re willing to speed this process along for me then I don’t need to rip your pretty little fingers off to get my job done. Do we understand each other?”

                Aevalle can guess where the woman’s face is, so she does the most simultaneously Dalish and foolish thing she can think of and spits in it.

                She gets a blow to her face for that. Hadriana releases her hair and she falls into the mud, landing awkwardly on her arm. She grits her teeth and keeps the anchor under control.

                She hears the sound of lightning, and it’s not coming from the sky.

                _Lethallin never liked storms_ , she thinks, and she exhales.

                “You’ll learn your place, rabbit,” Hadriana snarls.

                Aevalle’s back is to the rift. She’s waited as long as she can. _Hurry lethallin_ , she thinks, and she releases her hold on the anchor.

                Behind her the rift explodes outwards, and the ground shakes as a pride demon steps out, laughing deep and low.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halam tu enna’an na, shemlen – The end is coming for you, human.  
> Atisha melana’el – Patience. Literally “peace longer”
> 
> Oops my finger slipped and I updated again. What is the point of having a buffer if you're just going to burn through it, you ask?
> 
> Don't worry about it. Just don't.


	10. Battles in the Rain

At Anders’ insistence Cassandra parks the car and they follow the abomination at a run for a block before he signals for them to stop, leaning around the corner of a building. Fenris watches as he looks out, gives obvious pause, then looks out again, scowling.

                “Something’s wrong,” he says to Hawke, and Fenris steps around the corner himself.

                The street is dead empty, a single van parked out front of a building with the engine running, the doors open and the lights on. There is a chain link fence around the old warehouse, the gate hanging open, lock lying on the ground. The lyrium under his skin hums softly, as if responding to something, and Fenris looks up. Over the building he can see a sickly green light, and he can make out the sounds of battle just at the edge of his hearing.

                “That,” says Hawke, following his gaze, “doesn’t look good.”

                “Do you feel that?” Dorian asks. “It’s like...”

                “The veil is torn open,” Anders agrees. “It’s been going on for a month now. I don’t know if there’s more of them outside of Darktown, but these Tevinter mages moved in a week ago and they won’t let anyone through.”

                Everyone looks at Dorian.

                “I should be offended,” he says, “but I’m not at all shocked that my countrymen have something to do with this.”

                “And she is in there?” Fenris asks.

                “If they’re here for the hole in the sky,” Anders says, gesturing to the light seeping over the top of the building, “then they’ve either brought her here, or this will tell us where they’ve taken her.”

                They move forward as a group, lingering while Dorian and Merrill search the vehicle. Hawke moves to comfort Fenris, but he moves away from her touch, still staring up at the strange green light.

                “Venatori,” Dorian spits from the front of the vehicle. He’s got a wallet and a card he’s pulled out of it.

                “Fenris,” Merrill calls, her voice high with panic. She’s jumping out of the back, a scarf made from white lace in her hands, the center of it a mess of blood.

                That’s all Fenris needs. He tears through the first open door he finds, lyrium burning bright. He is dimly aware of Hawke and the others following him down the hallway, their footsteps echoing after him as he charges, following a trail of wet footsteps and smeared drips of blood.

                The trail leads him to a courtyard, and he stumbles to a halt at the carnage he finds there.

                There is truly a hole in the sky, and it sends out trails of green light from which demons emerge. He counts ten dead men and six more fighting, guns and magic blazing, swearing in Tevene all the while. A pride demon stands tallest among the carnage, laughing and crushing a mage alive with its hands.

                Fenris has only seen one once, and it had been thoroughly bound. This creature is bound by nothing, and is killing everything in sight.

                He keeps looking, panic rising, until he can see Aevalle. She is bleeding from a wound on her head, and something has fallen about her neck that must have been used to blindfold her. Her hands are bound in front of her—he thinks from the way they are tied that they must have been tied behind her initially and she jumped over her wrists—and she is cornered by a woman Fenris can’t quite see.

                He looks around for a weapon, finds a club on the body of a dead man. He takes it and starts running—his lyrium burns and then he’s only a few steps away from Aevalle, and he recognises the woman there with a shock so severe he plants his feet on the ground and stands perfectly still, just for a moment.

                “Nowhere left to run, knife-ear,” Hadriana snarls. “Nice trick with the rift, I’ll admit. Now close it.”

                Aevalle must notice the lyrium, because she glances over Hadriana’s shoulder and grins—wild and feral and smug, but _her_ smile, not the one she gives when she’s too many days without sleep, without clarity. Aside from the blow to her head, she is uninjured.

                “ _Ma halam, shemlen_ ,” she says.

                “I will not warn you again!” Hadriana snarls.

                “You won’t get the chance,” Fenris says.

                Hadriana freezes in place.

 

“Where the hell is Fenris?” Dorian yells, and Hawke grits her teeth as she wonders the same thing.

                The rest of the demons are barely wisps, and while they might be drawn to Hawke’s flames they are easily dealt with. A rage demon falls to a heavy iron bar Bull is swinging around, and Cassandra has a fucking machete that she keeps in her truck for whatever reason—not that Hawke is ungrateful—and Isabella, while outrageously drunk, is surprisingly good at kicking things in the face.

                Of course the pride demon is still very large, and Varric hasn’t managed to get Bianca up the stairs yet.

                She can almost hear him. _See? It’s a brilliant idea after all to keep her in the back of your car when we go out._ Only if he could get his legs up to the roof faster to provide them with some cover fire, that is.

                Electricity crackles from Dorian’s fingers as he deflects blows from the pride demon’s sparking whip, giving Hawke room to send flames burning up the demon’s flesh, the heat making cracks in its armour so slowly it’s painful. Roots of something long dead and ancient tear up out of the soil and wind about the demon’s legs, slowing its movements, trying to pull it down to one knee. Merrill sways in place but adrenaline keeps her going, keeps her moving out of harm’s way.

                The rain is coming down hard and heavy, and when the demon’s curling whip comes too close to Hawke she slips in the mud trying to avoid it. There’s a blur of blue light at her side and she thinks _Fenris_ —but it’s Anders instead, Justice burning through his eyes as his barrier burns bright, deflecting the blow.

                “Where is the one who bears the anchor?” Justice snarls as Hawke awkwardly climbs to her feet.

                “The what?” Hawke asks.

                The hole in the sky bursts and crackles, and damn if it doesn’t look just like that weird mark on Aevalle’s hand.

                “Find her,” he says, turning back to the demon. “She must close the rift before more are pulled through.”

                She blinks, and Justice rushes the demon, spirit magic curling from his fingertips.              He wields it like a physical weapon, energy crackling from his hands and warping the veil around him, and the pride demon retreats, its monstrous grin faltering at Justice’s onslaught.

                “Do you make friends with anyone normal?” Dorian asks, incredulous.

                Hawke hears a distinct tone come from her phone—the jingle for the brand of shaving cream Varric uses. She pulls it out of her back pocket and looks at the text.

-{ Broody Bluebird 11:00

-{ Can’t get a clear shot

                Across the courtyard she sees Fenris, lyrium burning, fighting a woman with lightning at her fingertips and laughter shrieking from her lips. Aevalle is nearby, defending herself from a human man wielding a knife, her bound hands up to protect her already bleeding face. That strange mark is burning on it, so bright it’s hard to look at.

                “Help Justice,” she tells Dorian, and she takes off at a sprint.

                A rage demon attempts to head her off, but Hawke blinks past it with a fade step and keeps running—oh this is the last time she will wear a push up bra literally anywhere.

                Hawke sees Aevalle deflect the knife blade with her palms once, twice, and the third time she takes a slash across her arm to draw his blade low, long enough to shove her palm into his nose, pushing it up. The man staggers back and Aevalle disarms him with a turn of her wrist.

                The man is dead by the time Hawke arrives, his throat slit with a deft and easy motion. Aevalle’s eyes are hard and fierce, and Hawke thinks she looks a lot older than nineteen in that moment. What the hell happened in that fire?

                The green fire on her hand flares up and Aevalle drops the knife to curl her hands toward her in pain. Hawke whirls in place as the rage demon is upon them, calling ice from her fingers. She’s never liked ice magic, it’s unfamiliar and clumsy, but it’s enough to freeze the awful thing in its tracks.

                The rage demon dealt with, Hawke spares a glance over to Fenris.

                Maker, the sight of him takes her breath away. His whole body is a burning blur, white and blue and unshakable rage. He moves as if battle comes as naturally as breathing, and every time a foot lands in the mud and slips his whole body moves with it, correcting, compensating, running with it, making it all look perfectly intentional, totally effortless.

                The woman fighting him cackles and goads him in Tevene, and when she fires lightning from her hands she is aiming for his lyrium, for his eyes. She tries to keep him turning, tries to keep him at a distance, but it is clear that the rain is bogging her down, that the mud at her feet is making her footing just unstable enough. There is fear in her eyes, wide and wild, and she makes up for it with the unsettling grin like a cornered animal.

                “Do your friends know what you are, little wolf?” she snarls after she catches a glimpse of Hawke watching in awe. “You play the hero now but have you told them about Seheron?”

                Fenris’ answering snarl is primal, wordless.

                “You’ll never be free, slave,” she spits. “I’ll have you on your knees like the dog you are!”

                Her lightning catches him then, and it arcs all along the lyrium on his body. He twists and yells in pain but he pushes forward still, his fists flying faster, the strange woman moving harder to keep up, to deflect his blows before they can land.

                “Hawke!” Aevalle yells, and Hawke tears her eyes away from the fight. A terror bursts from the ground at her feet, long limbs reaching wildly for her face—its twisted hands grabbing her arm, closing around her neck, and in a panic she calls for fire. It bursts from her hands and the terror’s shrieks are loud enough to drown out even Fenris’ enraged battle cries.

                The monstrosity drops her and she hits the ground with a yell. She opens her eyes just in time to see Aevalle jump on the creature’s head from behind, jamming her stolen knife into the demon’s eye. It screams again, its body convulsing once, twice, and then it seems to collapse in on itself, dissipating in a cloud of green ash.

                Aevalle lands on her feet, and she doesn’t even hesitate—she starts running back towards the pride demon, towards the hole in the sky it guards.

                “What the fuck?” Hawke breathes, climbing slowly to her feet. She looks back to Fenris, sees him charging into the building, the cackling of the Tevinter woman somewhere ahead of him.

                “Shit,” she says, and like the idiot she is she follows him.

 

“Hadriana!” Fenris snarls into the hallway. He hears that wicked laughter from up the stairs, and as he charges around the corner to climb them he raises an arm and throws himself against the wall to avoid a bolt of lightning thrown down at him. Some small part of his mind is screaming at him that this is foolish, he shouldn’t follow her where he no longer has the advantage of the uneven footing and chaos of the battle outside. The rest of him is burning with a rage that feels more like absolute terror, and he does not listen.

                Hawke is calling his name, running down the hallway after him. He grits his teeth and keeps climbing.

                Another bolt of lightning is launched down the stairs at him, and before he can think of dodging it a barrier snaps into place around him, so fast it makes his teeth sting. The lightning crashes harmlessly against it, sparking to either side of him, and Fenris barrels through the attack.

                He can see Hadriana’s face as she is frozen in place at the top of the stairs, and he’s not sure which one of them is more terrified of the other.

                She takes off again before he can reach her.

                She leads him all the way to the roof. The wind howls and the rain slaps his cheeks as he pushes past the door, and the crackle of lightning greets him along with the copper smell in the air that means blood magic.

                His skin crawls and he grins to keep himself from turning tail.

                Her lightning burns brighter now, and he has to throw himself farther to avoid it. He feels Hawke’s barrier physically _bend_ as a blast hits it, and he stumbles when the barrier takes another and it breaks.

                For one horrible, twisted moment, he thinks that he should have run when he had the chance, that day in the woods. But then he thinks of Hawke’s mouth on the markings, and they burn brighter, warming his flesh against the cold air.

                He hears Hawke scream, and he can’t avoid the next bolt of lightning—only raise his arm in a feeble attempt to block his face.

                He doesn’t hear the shot, but Hadriana’s bolt misfires, far to his left. There’s a bullet hole in her arm and she howls in pain, hesitating long enough to raise her barrier to cover her left side.

                Fenris doesn’t hesitate. He takes a step, and with the lyrium burning he ghosts through the air, his hand on Hadriana’s neck, shoving her into the wall behind her.

                “Stop,” she pleads, eyes wide.

                Behind him, Hawke is on her phone. “Hold up Varric,” she says.

                He can hear the dwarf’s voice over the phone. “ _If she budges I’m putting a bullet in her head.”_

                “Explain to me why I should be stupid enough to show you mercy,” Fenris snarls.

                “You—your sister,” she breathes. “You have a sister.”

                A voice just on the edge of memory, a chiding laugh. He blinks and it is gone, and he feels a hole where it used to be.

                “I’ll tell you where she is,” she breathes, “if you promise to let me go.”

                His mouth twitches. “I will release you,” he says. His voice is low and he thinks he can taste bile on his tongue—he should be crowing, lording her fear over her, but even the thought makes his stomach turn. “Her name.”

                “Verenia. She’s in—aah—Qarinus, working for magister Erimond.”

                He raises a brow. “She’s not a slave?”

                “She’s not a slave. Will you let me go?”

                Fenris’ lip curls in distaste, and he sees the knowledge of what he is about to do cross Hadriana’s face as the lyrium in his skin ignites again.

                He does not enjoy killing her, and even with her heart fluttering in his grasp he doesn’t understand why.

                He looks at it for a long moment, the heavy rain washing the blood from his hand, before he tosses it to the ground and closes his eyes.

                “Fenris,” Hawke says, approaching him from behind. “Are you—do you—”

                “No,” he snarls, turning on his heel and stalking back towards the stairs. “This—A sister? Conveniently alive? And free? It has to be a trap. Danarius knows. He has to.” He shakes his head, but it won’t clear. “It’s done, that’s all that matters. She can rot, with every other mage.”

                His stomach turns as soon as he says the words— _Hawke_ , he thinks, and he closes his eyes against it, against the memory of her touch on his skin.

                He feels a ghost of her touch on his shoulder, and he recoils from it, turning on his heel, staying out of her reach, his expression twisting as he tries to make sense of too much at once. “Don’t comfort me,” he says instead, the words bubbling up to cover his fear. “Look at me, Hawke. Look at—look at _this_.”

                He waves his hands at the courtyard below them, the blood at their feet. The sounds of carnage drifting up, the scream of the pride demon _finally_ falling, finally giving in.

                She does not. She looks only at him, her jaw tight.

                “Hawke,” he says, his voice low, near breaking. “Even if—even if this sister is real, if it’s not a trap... If she was my sister once, what is she now? What has magic touched that it hasn’t spoiled?”

                The kindness in her expression is more painful in that moment than Hadriana’s magic ever was. He turns to look out onto the courtyard, to watch Aevalle stand near the hole in the sky—to raise her left hand. A bright spark of green energy snaps from her hand, from the mark there, and it connects her to the rift. There is a long moment where she seems to be fighting it, trying to pull something, and then the rift snaps closed, her arm pulls back, and she falls to her knees, clutching her hand.

                “Holy shit,” Hawke breathes.

                Dorian and Merrill run to her first, Hawke’s abomination friend following them close behind. Aevalle attempts to wave them off, but Merrill tilts her head back and the abomination sees to her head wound while Dorian scowls curiously at the mark on her palm.

                Hawke is beside him, and he turns to look at her again. She’s covered in dirt, soaked to the bone, her hair matted in a mess all around her face from combat and falling in the mud, and he can see the lines of her bra through her shirt, he can see the rain collecting in her collarbone before falling, the beads of moisture on her tight pants.

                _Battles in the rain always lead to one thing_ , the fog warriors said. Before Fenris killed them.

                She reaches for his hand, and he moves away before she can take it.

                “Fenris?” she says.

                He hesitates. “I—I have to go,” he says. He’s afraid of looking at her, and he knows he sounds angry but he can’t be weak right now, not in this moment.

                He leaves her on the roof, alone, and he slips out a back door onto the unguarded street, running on his own into the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma halam, shemlen – you’re finished, human
> 
> \--
> 
> I think Fenris and I have a lot in common, sometimes. Emotions too complicated to handle right now? Freak out, say something you regret, then run away.


	11. Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit NSFW content

Fenris has been to Hawke’s home a few times before; the last when he dropped her off after the hospital. Was that only this morning? Yesterday morning. Standing on her back porch in the rain is closest he’s come to actually being inside the house—before that, it was making out in the back seat of his car, parked in her  driveway.

                In his paranoia he parked the car three blocks away and ran through back yards and alleys. Twice he lost his nerve and turned around when he saw her house, only to open the door of his car, swear, and come charging back. Now, standing there, he feels he might lose his nerve again, but by this point he is beyond soaked through, and the rain is cold now that he’s run out of rage to fuel him.

                The hand that hits the doorbell is shaking and his teeth are chattering. No one answers, and the only movement he hears in the house must belong to the dog. He stands there, wavering, pulling his arms into his chest to warm them, and he waits longer still. Perhaps he should leave—he tried, he thinks. Can’t fault himself there.

                But he hears scratching at the door and the handle turns. When it swings open, Hawke’s ridiculously named mabari standing there wagging his stumpy tail, panting like an idiot.

                He says, “Aren’t you supposed to keep people out?”

                The dog bows and barks. He leads Fenris into the house, panting and running around Fenris all the while.

                Fenris finds a bathroom and he scrubs the blood out from under his fingernails and in the crevices of his hands the rain didn’t quite soak into. He washes his face, wincing at how he looks against the seafoam paint, the high-end fixtures. Blood spatter and mud on his clothes, he’s so soaked he could probably be rung out, his footsteps gleaming wet in the hallway behind him.

                He takes off his shirt to ring it out, and he watches the water in the sink turn pink as it goes down the drain. In the mirror his torso is covered in welts and burns—some from his brief scuffle with the abomination, to be sure, but most are Hadriana’s doing. He looks at the pattern her lightning has made on his flesh, the places around his lyrium markings where the skin has turned red, begun to bruise.

                His vision blurs, and he sees himself leaning over a different bathroom sink, shaking, spitting blood and trying not to cry too loudly.

                He blinks, and it’s gone. He stands tall and looks at himself intently—studying each line, each mark, each place where the lightning made his skin split and crackle. This is not the worst Hadriana has marked him, but it is the last, and he supposes that’s something.

                Still hurts like hell, though. He tries to put his shirt back on and fails—it’s too wet, and now that he’s exposed the wounds to air they sting and burn. He takes it with him, leaving the bathroom behind and following the dog into another room. He smacks his hand on what he thinks is a light switch, but it turns on a gas fireplace at the other end of the room.

                He follows the dog over to the fire, and it’s _warm_ , and he just plans on sitting down and waiting for Hawke, maybe getting the shaking in his limbs to stop. He sits with his knees pulled up to his chest, shivering, until his eyes just won’t stay open and he lays on the floor, his back to the fire. The dog lies at his back, and Fenris twitches at the contact but the dog either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

                He opens his eyes again when the dog _whuffs_ softly, and he blinks at the sound of what he assumes is the front door opening and closing. In a panicked moment he forgets where he is, but the dog stands and the sound of his claws on the hardwood floor makes Fenris remember. He curls closer into himself, colder than he was when he fell asleep.

                Hawke’s voice drifts in from the hallway with the sound of her shoes hitting the wall. “No, don’t jump on me—” She sighs. “Yes, I missed you too, good boy.”

                Fenris can hear the dog move back towards him, whining excitedly. He hears Hawke follow him, then stop and groan.

                “ _Carver_. I swear to Andraste if he leaves that door unlocked one more time I’ll gut him. Alright boy, what did you drag in this—”

                She turns the corner and stops, eyes wide, when she sees him. She’s wearing one of his threadbare sweaters, the hood up over her hair, and she’s washed the makeup off her face but she’s still wearing her wet clothes from earlier. He feels a pang of guilt as he realises that she was at his apartment—looking after Aevalle, like he should be.

                “Fenris?” she breathes. A guess at his shape, his features a shadow highlighted by the fire—he forgets sometimes that humans can’t see very well in the dark.

                He sits up, slowly. Now that he’s been still, everything hurts.

                “Hawke,” he says. His voice is low and scratches at his throat.

                “Fenris—you’re alright. We looked everywhere for you. I tried calling you but you left your phone in my car—”

                She turns on the light and he winces once for its brightness and again at her sharp intake of breath at the sight of him. Remembering he took his shirt off. This must look very strange, he thinks, but she drops her keys on the floor and in a heartbeat she’s kneeling beside him, frowning, her hands moving to the marks of the fight all over his chest.

                She stops before she touches him. He can feel what he said before he ran off hanging between them, and he closes his eyes against it.

                “I’m not very good at healing,” she says. “But—I can give it a shot, if you like.”

                He clenches his jaw. “I didn’t come here for that,” he says.

                His eyes are still closed but he can picture her smile from the way she exhales. A little shaken, a little crooked, but it’s there and it’s warm. “Did you come to cuddle with my dog instead? I’ll understand, he loves spooning.”

                He laughs, because she’s ridiculous, and his limbs shake a little too much, his head dips a little too far, and she catches his shoulder with one hand, pressing the other to his face. Her skin is like fire, and he leans into her touch with a single, shaking breath.

                “You’re freezing. Did you walk all the way here from Darktown?”

                “To my car.”

                “It’s not out front.”

                “Had to make sure I wasn’t followed.”

                “ _Fenris_.” She sighs. “Stay here,” she says instead, and she leaves him long enough to mess around in a cupboard. She comes back and throws a blanket over his shoulders, and she keeps rubbing his arms through it as if that will help.

                “We need to get you some dry clothes,” she says.

                He catches the sleeve of her borrowed hoodie in his fingers as she turns to go.

                “Oh,” she says. She laughs a little, embarrassed. “I was cold, and it was the only thing that fit.”

                He clenches the fabric in his fist. “Is she...?”

                “Finally sleeping. Merrill and Dorian stayed with her.”

                He doesn’t let the sweater go.

                “You can have it back if you want,” she says, half-teasing.

                He can see that stitching Aevalle uses where the sleeve has been repaired. He closes his eyes.

                “Come on,” she says. “Let’s find something that’ll fit you.”

                He winces. “I would only bloody them, Hawke.”

                She kneels down in front of him, and he snaps his eyes open again. Her arm hangs between them where he grips the sweater, and Fenris thinks that he should drop it, should let her go.

                He stares at her eyes instead. At her lips, slightly upturned in amusement for his stubbornness. He finds no hate in her face, no fear.

                “Why did you come here?” she asks.

                He considers saying _because I left my phone in your car_ just to see how she reacts, just to hear her laugh again. Instead, his head falls, and he glances up at her with wide eyes as he says, “I wanted to apologize. For what I said. I was angry and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

                He is no good at apologies, so he practiced this one while in the car, while climbing over fences and stomping through mud. Even so, he keeps trying to rush through it, trying not to lose his nerve.

                She moves her free hand to the arm holding her sweater, to where a mark from Hadriana’s lightning is exposed to the air. Her hand glows and his breath hitches as he watches her hand draw closer. The soft blue light touches his skin and he winces as the lyrium ignites.

                Hawke hesitates. “Does it hurt?” she asks.

                “It’s fine.”

                “Fenris—”

                “Please,” he says, without really knowing what he wants.

                Her mouth twists, and she resumes the healing. He closes his eyes as her magic hums against his flesh. She can’t avoid the lines that run through his skin, Hadriana was aiming for them so precisely, and every time her hand passes over them he shudders as the lyrium soaks up her magic, greedily, spreading it through his body like a heartbeat. Each pulse a sharp pain, followed by a flood of warmth he’s never known before.

                She pauses to inspect his other arm, finding bruises and red lines following the lyrium but no burns, no split skin. She heals those anyway, her eyes flicking to watch his for any sign of pain or distress. As if he can understand how he’s feeling in this moment.

                He tries to speak again when she’s finished with the arm. “I was trying—” He exhales, his breath uneven. “I want to explain.”

                She reaches for his shoulders and slips the blanket from them. He shivers, only partially from the chill. “Everybody has bad days, Fenris,” she says, finding the lightning burns on his right side as she leans in.

                He can smell her, now. She smells like rain, sweat, earth, blood, the warmth of smoke and lingering over it all _his_ soap, _his_ scent on the sweater she’s wearing. His mouth opens as if to taste it in the air as her magic warms his flesh, brushes against the lyrium in his skin and sends heat coursing through his body.

                Fuck. He wasn’t expecting this.

                “Hadriana was... Danarius’ apprentice. A torment.”

                She stops what she’s doing, and his breath comes out of him in the ghost of a whimper, too soft to be heard.

                “She did this to you before,” she says.

                “Worse.”

                Oh, the anger in her eyes. Glimpsed it before with Athenril, but now he is close enough to see it in detail, the slight clenching of her jaw, the flash of her throat as she exhales.

                Her magic flares up again, and Fenris closes his eyes, focusing his breathing against another pulse through the lyrium in his body. This one is sharper, and the heat travels farther down, lingering in his core.

                “Then I would’ve killed her if you hadn’t,” Hawke says, her voice low and rich, and the sound of it does more to him than even her magic. He rolls his head back and breathes in through his teeth, releases it with shaking lungs.

                He opens one eye to look at her again. This time, she’s noticed.

                “You didn’t come here to talk about a dead woman, Fenris,” she says.

                “I...”

 _I came to say goodbye_.

                Remembering that hits him hard and cold, and she scrambles to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to—”

                She grabs his wrist as he moves to leave, the lingering magic in her hand sending fire running through his skin.

                “Stay,” she says, in the heartbeat where he hesitates.

                He reacts, with a blur and a snarl, and before he can form a coherent thought her back is on the floor, his hands on her shoulders, his knees planted on either side of her and his face hovering above hers.

                He freezes.

                Hawke kisses him.

                She sucks on his lower lip, the place where the lyrium curls just underneath it, and he gives in, his ragged breathing joining hers as he kisses her so hard, so desperately their teeth clack together.

                She makes a noise low in her throat, and he breaks the kiss—goes right to the source, the place where her throat trembles as a moan escapes her lips. She hasn’t washed away the sweat there, and he can taste the battle and the rain on her skin—he licks and sucks at it greedily, his lips digging deeper into each moan she makes, his tongue curling with delight when her voice begins to climb and her hands scramble for purchase on his bare arms.

                His attentions on her neck wander lower, to where her shoulder has been buried in his sweater. He can smell the ghost of himself on her skin, and he smirks against her as he feels her hips buck off the floor, the movement grazing his thighs.

                Fenris releases her shoulders and pulls them both into a sitting position. Hawke shrugs out of the sweater as Fenris reaches under her shirt. He yanks it over her head with more ease than he anticipated, and the momentum makes him fling it over his shoulder, landing somewhere in the room.

                Hawke’s eyes are dark with lust as she laughs, her hands going to his pants.

                He catches her wrists before she touches him, and her answering smirk is playful.

                “Fenris,” she says, her voice low and shaking.

                He breathes, staring at her.

                “Should we move this to the bedroom?” she teases, testing his grip on her hands.

                His lip curls—a moment of real, strong panic—and he says, “No,” faster than he means to.

                She smirks, and it’s intoxicating so he goes back to kissing her neck, harder, moving his lips down to her shoulder. He drops her hands to mess with the clasp of her bra, his hands fumbling, his fingers refusing to cooperate.

                Hawke rests her hands in her lap, and she tilts her head to whisper in his ear. “May I touch you?” she says, so softly her voice is little more than air on his ear, steady and sweet.

                “No,” he growls into her shoulder.

                She hums, amused.

                “May I help you with that?”

                “ _No._ ”

                Her breath against his ear is in the shape of her laughter. He groans at the feeling of it, feeling himself grow harder against his wet clothes.

                “Will you tell me what you want me to do?” she whispers.

                His breath catches in his throat. He’s all palms but the clasp comes undone, and she lifts her arms enough so he can rip the bra from her, throw it to the floor somewhere in the direction of the doorway.

                He leans back to take in the sight of her. Her skin is flushed, her eyes bright with laughter and want, her head rolling back just enough to expose her neck. When his gaze drifts downward he can see her nipples are hard, the rise and fall of her breasts with every breath.

                Most dangerous of all she has that smirk, that perfect smirk on her Maker-forsaken perfect lips, and he feels himself tremble at the sight of it.

                “Will you do as I say?” His voice is deep and rough. He clenches his hands beside him.

                Hawke’s eyes flicker shut, and her head rolls back further as a small, desperate noise escapes her lips. “Fuck, Fenris,” she says. “Anything, as long as you say it like that.”

                He raises an eyebrow.

                She licks her lips.

                He draws close again and kisses her, rough on her lips, and she hums pleasantly as she kisses him back, drawing a low, primal sound from him in response.

                She breaks the kiss and they pant against each other, foreheads touching, for a long moment before Hawke says, “Are you going to touch me, Fenris?”

                She’s trying to tease him, but there’s an edge to her voice that pleading, begging.

                “Although if you say no to that one I’m going to have to complain.”

                He laughs, and their noses touch. Even just with their faces touching he can feel her whole body shift, just slightly, at the sound of his laughter, the sway of her hips as she tries to grind against empty air.

                “Fenris,” she says, her voice high and _so sweet_. “I don’t hear that enough.”

                He kisses her again, just to feel the desperation in her voice on his tongue. “Show me,” he whispers against her lips, just to feel them quiver.

                She recovers with a smirk, and he sits back just enough to watch her hand snake up her bare torso, to watch her dip her thumb and forefinger into her mouth and remove them again, a string of saliva trailing after. She palms her breast for a moment, her eyes glued to his, and she smirks again when she takes the nipple between her fingers. She rolls it, slowly, steadily, and her breath catches with each movement, her other hand planted on the floor for balance.

                He watches as the flush from her cheeks begins to spread down her neck, as she drops her head, as her shoulders shake and her back arches, the arm supporting her trembling. She throws her head back and peers at him through slitted eyes, glancing down at his hands clenches on the floor on either side of him, of the growing bulge in his jeans.

                She’s still smirking, somehow, and her lips part to let small, desperate noises escape.

                He trembles as he lunges forward, kissing her again—harder. He throws her off balance and she falls back onto the floor, and it’s only because his hands are tangling in her hair that her head doesn’t bang on it. She moans into his lips, loud and demanding, as her hips rise and fall of their own accord. He can feel the movement of her hand against his chest as she continues working her breast, diligently.

                He pulls back to hover above her, and she makes a frustrated noise low in her throat that goes right to his core.

                “May I?” he pants.

                Her eyes are fire and her grin is wild, untamed as she squirms underneath him.

                “ _Yes_ ,” she says, almost reaching to touch him with her other hand. “Now. Right now. Don’t ever stop.”

                It’s his turn to smirk, and he lowers his mouth to her other breast. He draws his tongue along her nipple and the makes a strangled noise, her knees bending and her back arching as she tries to drive herself into his touch. His hands go to her hips as he sucks and licks and grazes his teeth where she makes the most noise, where her throat begins to sound raw from her frantic attempts to say his name.

                He draws back when he realises that she’s trying to say something.

                “Let me touch you,” she begs, her hands curled into white-knuckled fists at her sides. “ _Fenris please._ ”

                She sounds almost pained, and he doesn’t think his pants can get any tighter.

                “You may,” he says as he lowers his lips to her nipple again.

                She fists her hands in the hair at the back of his head, instantly, but his kisses start to drift further down before her hands can wander to the lyrium lines on his neck.

                He feels a ghost of a memory overtake him, in that moment, and it’s another woman panting a different name as he buries his face in her, her back against a hard stone wall and the smell of death around them.

                He blinks and it’s gone, the name and the woman and everything but the knowledge that it was _there,_ and he’s sucking hard on Hawke’s clit with no memory of removing her pants, but they’ve been kicked across the room, her red and thoroughly wet underwear still looped around one ankle, and her nails are digging into his scalp as her hips roll against his tongue. He registers all this as he pulls up, panting for breath, blinking rapidly.

                “Fenris?”

                Hawke’s hands fall from his head, and brush against the tips of his ears. Just like that, he’s growing harder, and he swears in the filthiest Tevene he can conjure, his hands going for the button of his jeans.

                She laughs. It’s rough and breathy and his voice escapes him in frantic noises at the sound of it.

                “May I?” she asks, between breaths.

                “ _Yes_ ,” he relents, his chest heaving.

                She’s so gentle that it almost drives him over the edge. She draws herself up off the floor, sitting with her legs on either side of him, her knees bent, and she kisses his lips, slowly, the slickness of her that still lingers there between them and she rolls it on her tongue. He’s so overwhelmed by that he hardly notices her fingers on the button of his jeans, doesn’t notice until the zipper’s undone and she’s drawing her fingers around the hem of his pants, between the band of his underwear and his skin.

                She pulls back to stare into his eyes. “Black?” she guesses without looking down, surprising a laugh out of him.

                He stands on shaking legs and allows her to pull his pants down, almost sobs with relief when she pulls his (red) underwear down to his knees. He tries to kick his jeans off but they’re so soaked with rainwater that Hawke has to physically pull them off, one leg at a time, and by the end of it they’re laughing, his hands balled in her hair to keep his balance, her hands grabbing his knees as she readjusts, kneeling in front of him.

                She gives his cock a long, hard look, and she raises her gaze to his eyes with a smirk. “May I?” she asks, leaving her mouth open at the end of the question.

                He blinks, _hard_ , and has to steady himself a moment. There’s another memory behind his closed eyelids, and he almost chases it, almost juts his hips towards her open  mouth—a man, panting, making desperate noises around his cock as the man with a different name and no lyrium thrusts, deeper—

                Hawke’s low, confused, “Fenris?” brings him back, and his eyes snap open, the memory slipping away.

                “No,” he breathes, frightened. Angry.

                She pulls away from him and he has a moment of panic, but she’s lying back on the floor, spreading her legs, and her eyes don’t stray from Fenris’ for even a heartbeat. She licks her lips and arches her back, and he watches the tremble of her lips as she breathes, as she reaches up and offers Fenris her hand.

                “Fenris, please,” she says.

                He takes her hand and she leads him down to his knees.

                He enters her gently, though she’s already slick from his attentions. He makes himself wait, patiently, for her to open up more fully, before he continues, pushing deeper, and he watches Hawke’s head roll back, the muscles of her throat clench then release as she relaxes around him. Still holding her hand, he pulls her up so he can embrace her. The movement is echoed at the place where they meet, and the shifting is enough to send stars through his vision.

                The memory of a woman flits before his vision, of a high voice, a name he can’t quite catch, growing harder as she thrusts around him, wildly.

                He buries his head in Hawke’s shoulder. He can smell her sweat and it grounds him _here_ , he’s so hard it’s painful but he’s frightened what will happen if they continue and he loses himself again.

                Her breasts rub against his chest as they breathe, he’s holding her so tight.

                She kisses his neck and murmurs something wordless and comforting against his skin as she moves her legs to lock her ankles behind his back. Her arms wind under his and up, her hands finding the lines of lyrium on his back. Her fingers brush against them, so gently, and it shoots a fire through his body that _hurts_ but it’s _here_ and the noise he makes into her shoulder in response is primal.

                She laughs. Low and with the promise of something wild. She rolls her hips once, and Fenris is lost.

He ruts against her with wild abandon, and she meets his pace quickly, her heels driving him deeper with each thrust, and while at first she whispers his name it doesn’t take long for her to moan it, to whine, to throw her head back and beg, plead, affirm, _Fenris yes don’t stop—_

                He grounds himself in her sweat, in the feeling of her breasts rubbing against his chest, the sound of her voice and the burn of the lyrium as she digs her nails into his back deeper with each movement shared between them. He moans _Marian_ once, tentative and low in his throat and she gasps and shudders around him, a glimpse of what will soon follow.

                “Talk to me,” she begs, her voice rising, raw around the edges. “My name, say my goddamn name Fenris.”

                He growls her name into her shoulder in between drinking the sweat that collects along her collarbone. In between lathing his tongue along her neck, sucking her flesh hard enough to bruise—his own smell is all over her, his sweat and the crispness of the lyrium, the smell of her dripping around his cock as he thrusts into her, and he drinks it up from her throat as her voice rises, and he can hear nothing but the slapping of their flesh, his name repeated over and over in a voice that’s escalating, shouting in his ear.

                She’s so tight around him, and he keeps driving deeper, harder, until her back arches sharply and she gathers him in so deep, and he can feel her spasm around him, and even as he tries to thrust again he is undone by how hot and tight she’s become, the way she screams his name as she slips over the edge, her voice raw and wild and wanting.

                The lyrum in his skin burns so hot he almost seizes up in pain, but the pressure in his body releases and the heat dissipates into the air as the light from his markings dances on her flesh, on the walls around them. As he spills into her, his vision doubles, and he’s fucking a man from behind, fucking a woman against a stone wall, his lips split and bloody and the burns from a taser across their backs. They open their mouths and say—

                “Fenris,” Hawke breathes, and the memories are gone from him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I'm posting this let's never speak of it again
> 
>  _But it's about the character development_ I say as I hit the post chapter button
> 
> In other news, this was the chapter I realised that Fenris is shirtless like 70% of the time in this story so far. You're welcome.


	12. New Message from Varric Tethras

_New Message from Varric Tethras_

-{ SO

-{ Hawke

-{ Congrats I guess

-{ Good for you, finally fucking the broody elf

-{ If I seem pissed off

-{ It’s because I lost how much fucking sleep  
    wondering where the fuck he’d gone off to

-{ Only to get a text from your brother

-{ At four in the goddamn morning

-{ Saying he needed a place to crash

-{ Because he was standing on your doorstep and  
    he could hear you

-{ Whether you were literally loud enough to wake  
    up the entire neighbourhood is a subject of debate

-{ So next time

-{ Maybe let me know the little shit’s alive

-{ And with you

-{ Before you start sucking face

-{ Okay?

                -{ He’s not

-{ She lives!

-{ He’s not what?

-{ Sucking face?

-{ I don’t have any specific bets on that front so I  
   don’t really care if I’m wrong, I’m just shocked

                -{ Varric

-{ I know you’re tired so I’ll stop teasing

-{ Tell Broody I’m proud of him

-{ And if he breaks your heart I’ll break his face

                -{ Tell him yourself

                -{ He’s not here

                -{ He left

-{ Fuck

-{ I’m on my way over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one today.
> 
> Updates will be less frequent than they have been this week from here on out, I still have a significant buffer but there's a lot of editing to be done still.


	13. Tell Me to Leave

Dorian excuses himself for a smoke in the early hours of the morning—he has to grab Aevalle’s key from the kitchen where they left it and leave the building, needing more space than their tiny balcony provides.

                His hand shakes as he stands under the long canopy of the building and attempts to light his cigarette. Of course there are no lights—Dorian wonders what the hell Aevalle and Fenris are even paying rent for, the state of their building is atrocious. The wind’s picked up and keeps blowing his lighter out and it takes him some time before he gives up and uses a small flame from his fingertip. There’s no way anyone’s looking, it’s almost sunrise for fuck’s sake.

                He almost yells when the flame illuminates a pair of gleaming elven eyes, just in front of him in the dark.

                “Fenris?” he says instead. His cigarette hangs limply in his fingers.

                The voice that responds does not belong to Fenris. “Is she well?”

                He blinks. The accent isn’t Dalish, it’s something else altogether, but Dorian can’t place it. “Who are you?”

                “That does not concern you. I wish to know if she is well.”

                “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

                The strange elf sighs. He steps closer, and Dorian can make out a heavy leather jacket over a grey hoodie, eerie yellow eyes and green tattoos that seem similar in some places to Aevalle’s. Which makes the accent even stranger.

                “I have no time for games, shemlen.”

                “No need to resort to name-calling, I asked you a simple question.”

                The elf’s lip curls in annoyance, and the hair on the back of Dorian’s neck stands up as he senses the slightest charge of mana through the air—this strange elf is testing Dorian’s strength, the extent to which he has depleted his reserves of mana that day.

                Dorian rises to the bait, drawing on what energy he has left to flare a warning. It crackles on the air just outside the realm of hearing, leaving warmth on their cheeks in the cold night.

                The elf looks unimpressed, but Dorian expected as much.

                Dorian’s phone chimes in his back pocket and Dorian does not take his eyes from the elf’s as he pulls it out of his pocket and answers it.

                “Yes?” he says, trying to sound important.

                Aevalle sounds far too awake for someone who hasn’t slept in a month and just got curb stomped by Tevinter cultists. “Stop posturing and tell him I’m fine.”

                Dorian blinks, then scowls. “And how exactly do you know what we’re doing out here?”

                He endures the smug look on the elf’s face.

                “For fuck’s sake, Dorian, half the people in this building probably know you’re engaging in a magical equivalent of _mine’s bigger._ ”

                “I’ll have you know this is incredibly important work out here. And aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”

                “ _Fenhedis._ Let me talk to him.”

                Dorian considers deliberately disobeying her, but he offers the strange elf the phone anyway. The man hesitates for a long moment before he accepts it, and he moves a few steps away before he puts the phone to his ear.

                “ _Da’sahlin_ ,” he says, his voice pitched low. “ _Na etha?_ ”

                Dorian scowls. No one seems to try to have suspicious private conversations in Tevene around him, do they. It’s _always_ elven. Maybe he should take lessons from Merrill...

                “ _Ar ena vira na arla._ ”

                Dorian can hear her laughing through the phone’s speaker before she responds, but can’t quite make out the tone of it.

                “ _Ma nuvenin. Na souveri—hamin._ ”

                Does Dorian imagine the slight smile on the elf’s lips? He’s still a little drunk, he can’t be quite sure. Is that warmth in his expression? Fondness at the edge of his voice? He finds himself regretting the overpriced drinks at the club for more than just the absurd amount of money they cost him. Just how many strange inscrutable elf men does Aevalle keep around, anyway?

                The strange elf hands back the phone. Dorian takes it and scowls as the elf looks him over one last time, then turns on his heel and walks away, shoving his hood further up around his face.

                Dorian waits until the mystery elf is long gone before he stomps his half-smoked cigarette on the ground and runs back into the building. He bursts through the door and sees Merrill standing in the hallway with a mug of instant coffee.

                “What did she say?” Dorian blurts.

                “I only had half a conversation to go off, you know—do you remember what he said?”

                “Of course not.”

                “ _Oh._ ”

                “Well?”

                “Sorry.” Merrill leans back to glance in the doorway to Aevalle’s room before she nudges it closed with her foot. “I think she’s asleep again.”

                Dorian follows Merrill into the living room, and they sit together while Merrill whispers rather conspiratorially.

                “Well, she started off by calling him ‘ _Nadas-lin_ ’ which means, ‘Inevitable one,’ which I think is a very odd nickname for someone. Maybe she knew he was coming?”

                “Merrill, focus.”

                “Right, sorry. Anyway, and he said something and she laughed, and then she said something like ‘I can’t go yet, wait a little longer.’ What do you think that means?”

                Dorian drums his fingers on the couch beside him. “ _Interesting._ ”

                “Do you owe Varric any money?”

                “Maybe? Hard to say. We should grill Fenris when he gets back, if anyone ever finds him.”

                “Oh!” Merrill stands just enough to pull her phone out of her back pocket. “I almost forgot. Varric texted while you were outside. He says not to worry, Fenris is with Hawke.”

                “About bloody time!” Dorian exclaims, much louder than he means to. He leans back into the couch and covers his face with his hands. “I thought I’d be watching them dance around one another forever. Well at least that’s all done with, and maybe that miserable walking lantern can finally cheer up a little.”

               “Why?” Merrill wonders, tilting her head to the side. “You say that like Varric meant— _oh!_ ” Her hands fly to her face.

                Dorian starts to laugh. Merrill practically bounces in place on the couch.

                “Oh—oh Dorian is it true? Did they finally— _you know_.”

                Dorian’s laughing too hard, so he just nods, resting the back of his head on the couch and closing his eyes.

                He must have some conversation with Merrill after that—he remembers her babbling, which is becoming less incessant and more adorable the longer he is in her company, but after that he only remembers a blanket being placed over him. When he finally wakes, it’s because his phone is buzzing in his pocket.

                He sits up to answer it, blinking blearily in the morning light coming in the windows. Merrill is curled up on the couch beside him, sharing his blanket with a surprisingly peaceful smile.

                His phone reads _New Message from Varric_ , and Dorian’s wistful smile turns to a frown when he reads it.

-{ Ignore my previous message

-{ Broody is still missing

 

Fenris doesn’t return until the sun sets that evening.

                Dorian is coming back from his car with what Merrill assures him is the best Dalish-style takeout in town—although why she felt sending the Tevinter to the heart of Kirkwall’s overcrowded alienage district to pick up the food was a good idea he’ll never know—and he sees Fenris fumbling with his keys at the door to the apartment building, his shoulders hunched.

                “Where the fuck have you been?”

                Dorian regrets shouting immediately—Fenris is easily spooked the best of days—but Fenris doesn’t jump out of his own skin at the sound of Dorian’s voice. He turns, very slowly, and Dorian can see that his knuckles are split and bloody, that he’s leaning on one leg, and one incredibly puffed up eye that looks to be rapidly bruising.

                “Shit,” Dorian says.

                Fenris wavers in place. He says nothing.

                Dorian isn’t brave enough to attempt to help Fenris—the elf stands by as he unlocks the door but that’s the most Dorian can do for him. Dorian follows a few steps behind as they climb the stairs, thinking about what strange colour the stains on the floor might be if he has to drop the food to catch Fenris.

                When Fenris stumbles into the apartment, Aevalle is sitting on the counter in the kitchen, watching Merrill go through the fridge.

                Fenris meets Aevalle’s gaze, and Dorian watches over his shoulder at she takes in the state of him, her expression falling.

                “ _Lethallin_ ,” she says.

                There’s a low noise in Fenris’ throat. “Found a fight.”

                Aevalle opens her mouth and closes it before she attempts a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She slips off the counter and approaches Fenris not unlike a wounded animal or a tormented child. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says.

                Fenris brushes past her, going straight to his room. He closes the door without a word, and Aevalle stares after him for a long, tortured moment.

                “Let’s eat before the food gets too cold,” she says.

 

When Dorian and Merrill leave, their dishes sitting in the sink, Aevalle knocks on Fenris’ door with a plate full of whatever food they have left in her other hand.

                “ _Lethallin_ ,” she calls, softly.

                He doesn’t answer.

                “I’m coming in.”

                When she enters, Fenris is sitting on his bed, his back against the wall and his knees pulled up to his chest. His chin rests on folded arms and he’s staring at an open backpack on the floor. There’s a single pair of pants thrown into it, one of the legs hanging out. It’s sitting in a pile of clothing and belongings, likely dumped out of the bag and put back in a number of times from the way the shirts are crumpled and the charge cable for his phone is tangled up.

                She sits on the bed next to him and offers the plate. Fenris is either ignoring her or doesn’t even notice that she’s there.

                “How many times have you packed that?” she asks, looking at his belongings scattered all over the floor.

                He buries his face in his arms.

                “Tell me to leave,” he says.

                “I can’t do that.”

                “You almost died because of me.”

                “They weren’t after you, Fenris.”

                “Hadriana was.”

                She sighs.

                “Tell me to leave,” he says again.

                “No.”

                She watches his fist clench.

                “Fenris,” she says, putting the plate aside. “I’m not making you stay. If you want to, if it’s your choice, then you can go wherever you want to.”

                He raises his head and looks at her. His black eye is ugly and nearly swollen shut now, but she does not even flinch at the sight of it.

                “What do you want from me?” he asks her.

                It’s barely perceptible, but she clenches her jaw.

                “I want you to be happy.”

                “Why?”

                “Fenris—” She rubs her face with her hands. “Elgar’nan. Because you’re my friend? The closest thing to family I have left? Because—fuck. I can’t explain it.”

                “Can’t or won’t?”

                “ _Lethallin_.”

                “Tell me.”

                She sighs. She looks down at the scar on her left hand—no glove to cover it, it sparks and burns as soon as she scrutinizes it.

                She doesn’t say a thing. She gets up and leaves him to his misery. But he can hear her cleaning the dishes, that song on her lips that sounds sad and familiar in a way he can’t explain.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Da’sahlin – literally means “little moment.” Seems to be a nickname.  
> Na etha? – Are you safe?  
> Ar ena vira na arla – I have come to take you home  
> Ma nuvenin. Na souveri—hamin – As you wish. You are weary – rest.  
> \---
> 
> Oh hey Abelas about time you showed up, you're only in the tags or something


	14. On His Wrist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Before we read, please take note of this.](http://www.fishoven.com/rotating/fish_bakery_oven_05.jpg) They’re huge and they rotate and that’s all you need to know. Also a “bench” is a kitchen word for worktable. Not an actual bench.

Once Fenris and Aevalle’s hours calm down again, Varric moves Wicked Grace night to his place in a deliberate attempt to make Trust Circle Part II happen, but Aevalle shows up alone, an hour late, messing with a dark scarf around her neck and stammering apologies, not meeting Hawke’s gaze.

                Then Bull says, “Hey boss, you let us know if there’s any more demon holes. I’ll call the Chargers and we’ll take care of that for you no problem.”

                She smirks, her embarrassment gone. “You make it sound like you’re all in a gang instead of just class together.”

                “Isn’t that the same thing?” Hawke asks.

                Aevalle laughs, and she sits in the vacant seat next to Hawke as they deal her in.

                As Varric shows Daisy out the door at the end of the night, Aevalle and Hawke linger, sitting at Varric’s counter and passing the bottle of whiskey between them.

                “Have you ever just,” Aevalle is saying as she swirls the bottle like it’s a wine glass and she’s looking for tears, “wanted to be a better person than you are, but you don’t know how.”

                “Aevalle,” Hawke says, taking the bottle, “you make Andraste look filthy.”

                Hawke takes a swig and Aevalle nods, solemnly. Not at Hawke in particular, her expression is too vacant—at whatever’s going on in her head. She takes the bottle back from Hawke and contemplates it for a moment.

                “I just figured if I could make this one thing right, just take one tiny little piece of my huge fuck up and make it a little bit better, then maybe, _maybe_ I’m not a fucking waste.”

                “Okay, you’re done,” Hawke says, taking the bottle again and capping it. “Maybe someday you’ll be able to keep up with us hardened twenty-six year olds, but for today let’s get you a nice spot on Varric’s pull out couch, hm?”

                Aevalle doesn’t even notice Hawke tugging at her arm.

                “Did I ever tell you that Fenris literally dropped into my life? Walked in off the goddamn street looking like a drowned cat. I was with— _fuck_ , I was staying with Sera and I don’t know which of us hated the other more but I didn’t—don’t—deserve anything better. Told the manager he was my cousin.”

                “See, this is what I was getting at. That’s a really nice thing to do for someone. Varric, you pulling the sofa bed out?”

                He’s standing by the door, gawking. He jumps to attention at Hawke’s command and goes to the couch, sheepish. Hawke finally manages to get Aevalle off the stool, and Aevalle follows her like a child, led by the hand, her body trailing behind because it has to.

                “Hawke,” Aevalle says. “Hawke, if I can’t even help Fenris, how would Mythal judge me?”

                “Who’s Mythal?” Hawke asks.

                “She’s—” She exhales and taps the blue branches on her cheekbones with her finger. “She’s dead now. As dead as gods get.”

                Hawke sends Varric an extremely confused look.

                “Shit. Locked away, I meant. Don’t tell Merrill.”

                Varric finishes pulling out the sofa bed and fixing the sheet that’s already on it. Aevalle makes a face as she’s being told to sit, but she obeys, clinging to Hawke’s arm.

                “Hawke,” she says, “Fenris doesn’t deal with shit.”

                Hawke sighs. “Aevalle—”

                “The important shit. When it matters, he freaks out and shuts down. So please, don’t give up on him. I know he’s a mess, but he needs you.”

                Hawke bites her lip and says nothing.

 

The weather grows colder and Fenris avoids Wicked Grace night like the plague, even though Isabella and Bull tease him about it almost every day in class. If Cassandra has an opinion on the matter, she doesn’t voice it, and Fenris is grateful that she’s his partner instead of the others. It’s only a few weeks before winter break, and Fenris busies himself with school, work, and feeling sorry for himself.

                On the last day of class before the Satinalia break, Fenris is changing in the hallway and Dorian finds him, grinning.

                “Perfect timing, Fenris!” he says, which makes Fenris worry.

                He drags Fenris by the arm to the bread lab down the hallway, barely giving him time to lock up his locker.

                There’s not even a trace of yeast or bread in the lab. Instead, each wooden bench has a number of attractive looking gingerbread houses sitting on them—he sees Merrill  and Aevalle hovering over one they’ve fashioned into a Dalish landship right out of some history book, with some trees and a wolf statue next to it. Aevalle is painstakingly assembling little halla out of cookies while Merrill pipes fine details on the wagon.

                A quick glance around the room confirms that they are the only ones still working, and that their chef is mysteriously absent. He wonders if Hawke and Varric locked him in the cooler.

                “Fenris!” Hawke calls, and he turns to see her standing by the industrial size rotating oven. “Help me lift Dorian into the oven!”

                She’s stopped it so one of the decks is level with the narrow opening. Fenris starts to protest, but Dorian is already unbuttoning the top of his chef jacket to expose his chest—is there glitter on it?—and the Tevinter man says, “Hurry, that hairy lummox will be back any second.”

                Hawke doesn’t actually help lift Dorian in at all—Fenris just does it himself after Hawke takes too long to figure out positioning. Fenris ignores a cacophony of giggles behind him as he sets Dorian ass-first in the oven—which is thankfully cool, his friends aren’t _that_ suicidal.

                Dorian turns himself around rather expertly and lies on his side on the rack, shifting a little until he’s in position.

                “If you touch that temperature dial,” he tells Hawke, “I will kill you.”

                “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, winking as she flips the oven back on rotate.

                Fenris watches as Dorian slowly disappears into the oven, settling himself into a seductive pose.

                Fenris turns to Hawke. “What exactly—”

                “This isn’t a social event.”

                Fenris turns. Chef Blackwall is standing in the doorway, his arms crossed, features drawn into a scowl.

                “Excuse me,” Fenris says, ducking his head, and he goes around Blackwall to slip out of the bakery.

                “Wait,” Hawke calls, and Fenris lingers just past the doorway. He remembers that this is the first time they’ve spoken to each other since he left—first time he’s _seen_ her since he left—and his throat closes up. Does she look tired? Is he imagining things?

                She leans in the doorway, not quite meeting his gaze, her earlier bravado forgotten. He thinks she looks vulnerable in that moment, and it makes guilt twist up in his stomach.

                “I’m having everyone over at my place for dinner on Satinalia—I’d really like you to come.”

                His mouth feels dry. “You don’t have to—”

                “No I—I want you to come. If you want to.”

                She glances up to meet his gaze, and he looks away, jaw tight.

                There’s a chorus of laughter behind Hawke, and she turns to look back at the oven. Over her shoulder, Fenris can see Dorian’s descent into view through the open oven door, jacket open to expose his chest, posed like he’s in a magazine and winking. Their Chef stiffens, then lowers his head and shakes it, palm on his face, while Dorian slowly descends from sight again.

                “You little shits,” he says, and the whole classroom erupts with laughter.

                Hawke turns around again, and Fenris can see the ghost of her smile on her lips, just a glimpse of the shine of laughter in her eyes. He tries to memorize that moment, down to the single curl of her hair that’s slipped from her hairnet.

                “Fenris?” she says.

                “I—” He looks away. “I think I would like that,” he says, slowly.

 

While Hawke and Carver visit their mother at the hospital, Aevalle heads up preparations for the party with a sharp expression and a surprising knack for division of labour. She practically looks like a drill sergeant, the way she lines them all up when they arrive, gives them all quite a severe look—even _Fenris_ snaps to attention—and when she tells them to get going they disperse with gusto.

                “I have to admit,” says Varric, mostly to himself. “She runs a tight ship.”

                “Aren’t you Dalish, Boss?” Bull complains loudly as he chops onions. “I thought you don’t celebrate this junk.”

                “Neither do you,” Cassandra says, peeling potatoes.

                “I came for the free food,” he grumbles.

                Behind them, Isabella is laughing while she pours water into a pot full of chicken bones and scrap vegetable pieces to make stock. “I’ve guessed every possible colour!” she teases Fenris. “You’re not going without just to mess with me, are you?”

                “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Fenris says, smirking while he massages a dry rub onto the biggest beef roast any of them have ever seen.

                Varric breezes past them with a pan of hazelnut rye bread over one shoulder, and he slips the loaves off the sheet and onto the pizza stone in the top oven on the wall. “Bluebird,” he yells, “where’s that super soaker?”

               Aevalle is balanced precariously on the railing upstairs, trying to hang something green on the chandelier and failing. “Uh—Merrill, did you bring it in?”

                Merrill is holding Aevalle back from falling by her belt loop, half leaning off the railing herself. “Was I supposed to take that? I think it’s still in your apartment.”

                Dorian, who is busy arranging a mantle of shining baubles they dug out of Hawke’s attic, drops what he’s doing and heads over to the oven while Varric holds the door open. “You forget how many mages we have here,” Dorian says, a ball of water hovering over his hand while he smirks.

                There’s a metal hotel pan filled with stones and a metal chain sitting on the bottom of the oven, and when the water hits it the oven fills with steam. Varric closes the door and sets the timer, grinning.

                By the time Hawke and Carver return, clearly run out of things to bicker about, the table is set with heaping baskets of bread, the side dishes are being kept warm in the oven, several trays of dessert are coming to room temperature on the counter and Fenris is just taking the roast out of the oven, prodding it with a thermometer to check if it’s done.

              Hawke stares at them all for a long moment before she smiles, truly smiles, and says, “Do I have time for a shower?”

                Everyone arrived so early that no one is dressed up, but everyone tries their best to look presentable. Isabella and Merrill chat while they share the tiny mirror in the main floor bathroom to fix their hair and makeup while Aevalle and Cassandra sit on the floor outside it, using their cell phone cameras to help apply mascara. Bull changes out of his stained shirt for something a touch more formal, Dorian vanishes into a bedroom and comes out looking flawless and dashing as always, Varric throws on a sport coat and Fenris puts on a dark dress shirt, rolling up the sleeves. Hawke comes downstairs again with her hair hastily dried, probably with magic, some makeup slapped on, and then the roast is declared fit to eat.

                Even the enormous dining table in Hawke’s home is just too small for all of them, so they eat with bumping elbows and invaded personal space all across the board. At some point Merrill gives up and sits in Isabella’s lap to eat her supper, much to Isabella’s delight, and Dorian flatly refuses when Bull sends a significant look his way. Everyone gives Barkspawn far too many table scraps and by the time dessert rolls around the dog is on his back by the fireplace, legs twitching in his sleep. The wine flows and everyone is louder than they should be, closer to each other than they mean to be but they’ve all shed blood for one another so they don’t mind. Carver is sullen but not a true outsider, Varric goading him into joining their revelries with minimal eye rolling.

                They exchange gifts without any sort of order, the whole affair a mess of laughter and hugs that last too long. Fenris only has the few gifts to give—not sure until the last moment if he would be coming—and he gives Hawke hers in the most private corner he can manage, while everyone tries their best not to be obvious about looking on.

                It’s a cactus, and she looks confused for a moment until he says something low enough no one else can hear. She actually laughs, so hard and so long that she has to sit down, wheezing by the end of it, wiping away tears.

                She gives Fenris a striking red bandana. “Can’t believe you don’t have one for work,” she says, looking embarrassed at the scrutiny from every corner of the room.

                He puts it on his wrist and not his head for the moment, and with her smile the rest of the room is on their way to forgiving Fenris.

                Almost everyone opted for joke gifts—Aevalle receives three pacifiers, and she throws each one at the face of its giver, swearing in elven while they laugh. Varric gives her a coffee maker and she spends almost fifteen minutes hugging it, refusing to let it go. Varric receives four bottles of shaving cream and Fenris gives him one for growing hair, which he gives a special place of honour on the table in front of him for the rest of the evening.

                Aevalle seems to vanish in the middle of the party, and Fenris looks all over the house for her before he finds her outside, standing on Hawke’s front porch and watching a motorcycle drive away. She’s cupping something small in her hands, the remnants of a wistful smile on her lips.

                “Friend of yours?” Fenris asks.

                She jumps nearly out of her skin when she sees him. “ _Fenhedis_ ,” she curses, laughing. “You’re so quiet, _lethallin_.”

                It’s a rare day he can sneak up on her, and he allows himself a smug smirk at her expense. “What’s that?”

                “This?”

                She holds it up for him to see. A small flower, barely the size of a coin, gleaming and golden against her moss green hand warmers. It seems to shimmer in the moonlight, almost glowing with a life of its own, and Fenris has never seen its like.

                “ _Da’rahn arla_ ,” she says, softly. “A little piece of home.”

                Her expression begins to fall, and Fenris thinks she looks achingly lonely, staring down at the little flower.

                 “Do you wish you could go back?”

                She hums, thoughtfully. “I think I’ll have to, someday,” she says. She doesn’t take her eyes from the flower. “But not yet.”

                They get home and she puts the flower in a cup of water in her bedroom. It does not wilt, cease its strange glowing or show any sign of decay, and Fenris sees her looking at it from time to time, hears her singing a strange and breathy elven song as she brings it to her nose. The petals brush her lips as she lifts it up, and he feels he’s seen something intimate, personal, each time he witnesses it.

               

Fenris starts coming to Wicked Grace nights again, and he doesn’t sit next to Hawke but he always sits near her, and he watches her when she’s not looking. He only takes the red bandana off for school, wearing it around his wrist while he’s not at work and on his head when he is. The other cooks on the line tease him about how bright the colour is—until Aevalle catches them at it one day. After the first shift she works without him they shut their traps, glancing over their shoulders at her every time she breezes into the kitchen, humming a pleased little tune to herself.

                School ends for a couple weeks before the next semester starts, and Fenris and Aevalle both jump at the chance to work as many hours as they can. Hawke calls them after work one night, saying the abomination has found another hole in the sky in Darktown. Everyone assembles, no questions asked, and this time they bring whatever they have that counts as a weapon. They find Venatori at the rift, working strange magic into it, and they kill them along with the demons before Aevalle closes it.

                The rest of the night is spent somewhere Varric recommends, and Fenris doesn’t remember much of it other than the taste of alcohol in his mouth, the sight of Hawke dancing with the abomination, a longing expression she sends his way when she thinks he’s not looking. Aevalle disappears with Isabella and Merrill for a while, and when she finally finds Fenris again she smells like sex, her clothes and hair in complete disarray, her laughter high and light as she leans into the back of her chair, throwing her head in the air.

                Out of the corner of his eye, Fenris sees Dorian hand Varric an impressive stack of bills, their jaws both slack.

                She smells so different from Hawke, but after they stumble home he can think of nothing but that night with Hawke, his name on her lips, the smell of himself lingering from his sweater. He does something about that in the safety of his room, his lyrium burning in the night, and he wonders if this is dishonest in some way, if this is tainting the memory of what they did.

                He has a flash of his other life, at the end, but it slips from his grasp and leaves him lonelier than before, panting into the cold air in his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don’t climb into industrial ovens kids it’s not recommended by the manufacturer. Not even to grab all the junk you dropped in it
> 
> OH RIGHT STEAM – steam is the secret to an amazing, firm crust on those artisan breads we all love. Commercial ovens have hook ups to the water line, and the baker steams the oven up when the bread goes in, then releases it from the oven part way through the bake. At home you can get a metal pan and fill it with chain and clean rocks, and hit it with a super soaker then close the oven right away – I haven’t tried it but the Bouchon Bakery cook book has some more detail about it if you’re interested.
> 
> The steam in the oven helps kickstart the maillard reaction (browning) on the surface of the bread, leading to a dark, crisp crust. If you’ve only ever had supermarket bread, I really recommend finding a place that makes artistan or rustic-style breads near you. Get a real sour dough, get a good rye bread with a dark crust – I got a pumpernickel bagel in New York city and I almost died of happiness. I’ve been craving it ever since.
> 
> [Here’s a good video for learning a little bit more about the artisan bread process.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?t=70&v=tdRMaDLQLm4) He doesn’t walk about it much but there’s video of him working the dough, shaping it, dusting it, using the oven... etc.
> 
> The particular recipe I’m talking about here (the hazelnut bread) was sourced by one of my chefs from the American team for the [Coupe du Monde de la Boulangerie](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coupe_du_Monde_de_la_Boulangerie) however many years back (I don’t know what year), and I can’t share it with you but goddamn it’s amazing. My understanding is that this recipe was the top in its category or something and I can believe it because I have dreams about that bread, it’s so good. It has four different starters and whole hazelnuts and I could go on forever about it, honestly. So good.


	15. New Message from Merrill Sabrae

_New Message from Merrill Sabrae_

-{ Please pick up the phone Lethallan

-{ I’m worried about you

-{ I just wanted to talk about what happened

-{ I thought you were happy

-{ We both thought you were happy

                -{ How long have you known, Merrill?

-{ Oh Lethallan

-{ I shouldn’t have brought it up

-{ I’m so sorry

-{ I knew it would upset you but I was so drunk

-{ But you’re so lonely

-{ You don’t need to be lonely anymore

                -{ Tell me

-{ I guessed when you were sick

-{ And you asked to have me ward away Fen’harel

-{ And well

-{ Before that I suppose I should have guessed

-{ Because of what you said about your clan

-{ Lethallan please pick up

-{ I want to say this to you

-{ Not like this. It’s too important for this.

                -{ I need to know when

-{ When you sealed that rift, the first one

-{ You were talking in elven in your sleep

-{ Oh Lethallan you walked where the sorrows lie

-{ You echoed it in your sleep and my heart broke  
    for you

-{ For everything you lost

-{ Please pick up the phone, Lethallan, I want to hear  
     your voice

                -{ Are you angry

-{ Never

                -{ How can you not be

                -{ How can you forgive me holding back what I know

                -{ Why aren’t you screaming at me

                -{ Why would you

-{ Lethallan?

                -{ Do you know how long it’s been

                -{ Since someone touched me like that

                -{ Without wanting to hurt me

                -{ Without cursing everything I am

                -{ I don’t deserve it Lethallan

                -{ I don’t deserve your pity or your heart breaking or even  
                  Isabella’s fingers or her tongue

                -{ I ruin everything I touch

                -{ I did it to Sera

                -{ I did it to

                -{ Fuck

                -{ I can’t do that to you

-{ Lethallan please pick up the phone

-{ We can talk about this

                -{ Did you tell Isabella

-{ No!

                -{ Why not

-{ You wouldn’t want her to know

                -{ I don’t want anyone to know

                -{ I don’t want you to know

-{ But I do

-{ And I won’t take it back

-{ Not for anything

-{ Pick up the phone Lethallan

-{ So I can tell you that you’re beautiful

-{ And caring

-{ And kind

-{ And that I do not care that you hide your past from us

-{ That I understand

-{ That I wish I hadn’t said it when I was drunk

-{ I wish I’d waited until you told me yourself

                -{ You’d be waiting a while

-{ Not forever

                -{ Maybe

                -{ I can’t give you what you want Merrill

-{ Oh Lethallan

-{ Didn’t I tell you already?

-{ I’m not asking for you to call me vhenan

-{ I’m not asking for ar lath ma

-{ I just wanted to give you sahlin atisha

-{ Was it so bad that you wouldn’t do it again?

                -{ So what

                -{ You only did it because you feel bad for me?

-{ Well

-{ Do you remember that text Varric sent me?

-{ Because I do

-{ Ir suledin var mah halam, vhenan. Ar dirtha  
    vir’sulenehn.

-{ He wanted me to translate it

-{ And I pretended it was about laundry

-{ I tried to get Isabella to say it so many times

-{ And bless her, she tries

-{ But she’s got the emphasis all wrong

-{ And I can’t get it out of my head

-{ In your voice

                -{ Merrill

-{ You don’t have to call me vhenan

-{ That wouldn’t be fair to either of us

-{ But I’d like to hear you say the rest of it sometime

-{ If that’s alright with you

_Incoming Call from Aevalle Lavellan_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sahlin atisha - A moment's peace  
> Ir suledin var mah halam, vhenan. Ar dirtha vir’sulenehn. – Endure it a little more, the end is still long ahead, my heart. I will speak the way of joyful song.
> 
> I didn't expect to kind of ship this but here I am and I regret nothing
> 
>  
> 
> [Oh I forgot I made this sick Josephine themed chocolate amenity in class this week if you guys wanna see it.](http://playwithdinos.tumblr.com/post/117039470400/chocolate-amenity-dragon-age-themed-edible)


	16. White Noise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mildly NSFW content in this chapter.

Hawke’s mother passes before the new semester begins, and Hawke has the absurd thought that she’s grateful Leandra didn’t decide to die at the most dramatic time possible. She’d expected it. Does that make her a terrible daughter? She can’t decide.

                Leandra Hawke has largely been forgotten by most of Kirkwall’s elite during her long hospital stay, but there is a lavish ceremony already arranged, requests for attendance are sent, and so Hawke and Carver make sure they get to the Chantry early, to start collecting the cards off all the flowers that have been sent, to keep their hands busy.

                Someone has sent lilies, and they sit front and center, directly before Leandra’s empty coffin. Carver sees them first and he throws them across the Chantry, ignores the scolding he gets from the sisters there, yelling and spitting and in such a rage that only Hawke’s soft touch calms him. She embraces her brother as they have not embraced for years, and Hawke watches over her shoulder as Aveline stoops, picks up the card that came with the lilies, and tucks it away.

                She meets Hawke’s gaze, as if to promise something, but Hawke has long given up hope of ever finding answers.

                She sits through the ceremony and her blood boils, her hands itch to light the whole place on fire at the sham of it all, the idea that her mother is anything but gone, anything but another member of her family taken from her.

                Carver is on her left and Varric at her right for the whole thing, and bless them the rest of their friends are there, scattered about the Chantry through the ceremony and the short reception after. Aveline and Donnic are chatting with Fenris and Aevalle, and bizarrely they seem to be getting along. She knows for sure Isabella is trying to convince Merrill to sneak away into the confessionals from the ashamed blush on Merrill’s face. Bull and Dorian are given awful stares for most of it, Cassandra knows all the most devout things to say but also the things that Hawke wants to hear and those are what she says instead, gently. Fenris watches Hawke when he thinks she’s not looking. She doesn’t know what it means, but it’s something, she supposes.

                They’re all themselves, not for an instant pretending to be anything else, and sure Bull and Dorian turn heads, people look at Fenris and Aevalle like they’re criminals, but they hold their heads high and they’re what she needs. They have her back, and she knows they would help her trash the place if she started. She considers doing it, just to watch Fenris fight again.

                The body was cremated out of sight, out of mind, and Kirkwall’s elite stops trying to pretend they’re interested after the funeral so it’s her friends who drive out to the coast, who stand on the beach as she and Carver wade into the freezing surf, wind howling at their backs as they scatter Leandra’s ashes towards Fereldan, to where they lost Bethany and their father.

                Carver takes off, and everyone else gathers at the Hawke household for a while. They start by gathering in Hawke’s large kitchen and they prep and cook every bit of food in the fridge, and when that’s not enough Bull and Dorian leave to get more and they do it all over again, until Hawke’s fridge is full of everyone’s version of comfort food. Then they play Wicked Grace until people start to trickle out. Aevalle, Fenris and Varric stick around, Fenris leaning against a wall and scowling while Aevalle and Hawke pass a bottle of whiskey back and forth.

                Varric gets a call and he drags Fenris out to go find Carver. Fenris leaves only reluctantly, sending long glances back at Hawke, but Aevalle urges him to go.

                “You don’t talk about your mother,” Hawke says, when they are alone.

                Aevalle takes a swig. “What’s to say?” She passes the bottle back. “She left me with the clan when I was six.”

                “Shit,” Hawke says. “Why?”

                Aevalle’s mouth twists up, and Hawke suspects the honest truth is there, about to tumble out. As always, Aevalle schools herself and shrugs. “Said she had to do something.”

                “Must have been important.”

                Aevalle doesn’t answer. She takes the bottle back and takes a swig.

                “Do you hate her for that?”

                “Do you know,” she says, “everything I did, I wanted to be just like her. Picked the same _vallaslin_ she had, to honour Mythal, tried to protect the clan in her stead. And then I left and I—kept trying to be her. Kept trying to protect people.”

                “I think that was a yes or no question.”

                “Shut up, Hawke, I’m trying to be profound.”

                Hawke laughs, but it’s a dry thing that makes the back of her throat itch uncomfortably.

                “ _Ir abelas,_ Hawke,” she says.

                “Thanks, Aevalle.”

                Varric and Fenris return with Carver in tow, and he’s shit-faced and miserable looking and he tries, awkwardly, to hit on Aevalle the moment he sees her. She’s kind enough not to laugh in his face, and she helps Varric drag him to his room while Fenris watches Hawke climb the stairs.

                She looks up from her bed to see Fenris linger in the doorway.

                “I don’t know what to say,” he says. “But I am here.”

                She doesn’t know how long she cries, lying on her bed, her face buried in Fenris’ shirt and her arms wrapped around him, clutching him tight. He hushes her and runs his fingers through her hair, hums one of the songs Aevalle does sometimes, the one that sounds familiar but Hawke can never place it. When she finally falls asleep she wonders if he’ll leave her again, if he’s just there out of pity and not something more.

 

Hawke doesn’t show for a couple Wicked Grace nights, and no one pesters her much about it; it’s quieter without her, although Bull and Dorian still bicker and Isabella still tries to guess the colour of Fenris’ underwear. Anders and Fenris still argue almost endlessly about magic, Dorian jumping in sometimes, and they all just continue to rile each other up until Varric repurposes the super soaker that was bought for Satinalia.

                “No more magic talk,” Varric says, right before they get kicked out of the bar for the liberal use of the water gun. They hang out on the street a while after and tease Varric about his aim with the thing, even though their teeth chatter and the rain is pouring down something miserable. Hawke’s absence is stark, in that moment, and everyone leaves one by one. Those who remain stand in silence until Fenris offers Varric, Merrill and the abomination a ride home.

                It’s absurdly late when they slink back into their apartment, but Fenris lies awake, listening to Aevalle sing to her flower in the other room, her voice muffled by the wall. He wonders who would owe who money if he told Varric about it.

                He doesn’t know any elven that isn’t a curse, but he thinks the song is oddly sentimental for her. Aevalle never struck him as the type for that, still doesn’t, but there she is, crooning over a plant in the other room.

                There’s something about the song that makes him pick up his phone and text Hawke.

                -{ we missed you tonight

                He does not expect an answer, dropping his phone on his chest and sighing, staring up at the ceiling.

                He almost drifts off to sleep when he feels his phone vibrate on his chest, and he blinks at the screen, frowning.

-{ We?

                -{ i miss you

                He’s not sure what makes him hit the send button. That infernal song coming from the other room, perhaps. Still, he cannot bring himself to regret it.

                He almost jumps out of his skin when his phone starts to vibrate, when _Incoming Call_ is displayed on the screen with a picture of Hawke’s face on it. Almost drops his phone.

                “Hawke,” he says, breathless, sitting up as he answers.

                There is only the white noise of the air around Hawke coming through the phone. He wonders if she meant to call him or if she rolled over on her phone in her sleep. But he can hear her breathing.

                He licks his lips. “Tell me,” he says, “and it is done.”

                “ _Fuck_ ,” Hawke says, _finally_ , and her voice sounds rough, unused, on the other end but he closes his eyes with relief at the sound of it.

                “I—that’s not how I wanted to open up.”

                He laughs a little, low and breathy, still hearing Aevalle’s movements in the other room.

                “ _Maker_. Sorry Fenris, I just... I just wanted to hear your voice.”

                He finds himself smiling. “You could have heard my voice at the bar tonight.”

                “Yeah. I could have.” She hesitates. “Fenris?”

                “Yes?”

                “What are we, exactly?”

                It’s his turn to sit there, breathing, not answering.

                “I mean, was—was that you, calling it off? That night?”

                “Hawke.” His voice is pained, and try as he might to steady it, he can’t.

                “Do you think about it?” she asks, her voice drawing low, breathy. He hears the slide of a glass bottle on a granite counter.

                “You’re drunk.”

                “Maybe. Is that pathetic? I’m finding it kind of boring, honestly, drinking alone. I wanted to wait here for Carver to come home so I could scream at him for a while but he texted me like, an hour ago saying he’s not coming home tonight.”

                He’s not sure what to say, his tongue lying limp in his mouth.

                “I do. Think about it. A lot. Does that bother you?”

                “Not at all,” he manages to say.

                “Does it bother you that I’m thinking about it now?”

                He closes his eyes. “Hawke.”

                “Is that a yes?” she says, trying to sound sultry but mostly sounding drunk. “I tried to fuck Anders.”

                His hand makes a fist in the sheets next to him. He says nothing.

                “Oh,” she says, detecting something in the sound of his breathing. “Didn’t like _that_ , did you?”

                His mouth is dry. He can’t trust himself to say anything.

                “I mean I _tried_ , Fenris. We swapped spit and I shoved him up against that bed he saves for his patients, but he was too gentle, and he had stubble all over his face and—and he wasn’t you. We didn’t even get our shirts messed up, I called it off.”

                He shouldn’t feel relief, there. Shouldn’t be absolutely thrilled. Can she hear his heart hammering through the phone? Should he put it against his chest so she can? So his body can speak where his words are failing him?

                “And then I went home and I lay on that rug in front of the fireplace and—holy fuck I’m drunk.”

                He feels warm, all his clothes from the evening suddenly very tight on his skin.

                “Should you be telling me this?” he says.

                “I think sober Hawke would think it’s a terrible idea, and therefore I’m going to do it.”

                He should hang up the phone. He should hang up the phone and forget this ever happened.

                He can hear her move, hear the bottle slide on the counter again. Her footfalls on the hardwood floor are a distant sound, her bare feet sticking just slightly to its surface with each step.

                “Do what?” he asks, breathless.

                He hears the rustle of her clothing, the sound of something hitting the floor. She curses.

                “Hawke?”

                “Just slipped a little—this is some strong shit. Note to future Hawke, buy this again. Best life decision.”

                “You will not be saying that tomorrow.”

                “Seen the time? It’s _already_ tomorrow.”

                He laughs a little. “That’s not how it works.”

                Her clothes are rustling again, and he feels a surge of panic and heat at the same time. “Hawke,” he says.

                “I think I told you,” she says, “that I get off on hearing you laugh.”

                Oh she _has_ to hear his heart, it’s hammering against his ribs as the lyrium begins to hum on his skin.

                “I’m about to fuck myself, Fenris,” she says. “It’s a bit—I’m not as dextrous as normal. Wonder why.”

                “You’re drunk.”

                “Oh yeah.” She hums, hoarse and low, and Fenris bites his lip at the sound of it. “I want you to come over, Fenris,” she says.

                “You wouldn’t say that if you were sober.”

                “I asked sober Hawke, she says it’s okay.”

                “I highly doubt that.”

                “ _Fenris_ ,” she says, her voice pitching higher. He can hear the movement of her hand against her clothing, the sound of her body shifting against the rug, and he grits his teeth.

                There is a moment of only listening to her breathing, the tiniest sounds of pleasure escaping her lips. It’s absolute torture.

                “Do you ever,” she says in between breaths, “think of fucking me, Fenris?”

                He really needs to hang up the goddamn phone.

                “Yes,” he breathes.

                She moans, long and loud. He closes his eyes and savours the sound of it.

                “Do you— _fuck_ —do you want to fuck me again?”

                He can’t answer.

                “Are you hard right now?”

                He just breathes. She laughs, low and breathy, and it makes his jaw tremble, as if he can devour the sound of it from afar.

                “Please,” she says. “Tell me. I won’t tease you, I’m the one with my hand down my pants here.”

                “Yes.”

                “Yes you’ll tell me or yes you’re really into this?”

                “ _Yes_.”

                Her breath hitches and she moans again, higher. Fenris’ hand is still firmly balled up in his sheets, and he can feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

                “Are you touching yourself?” she asks.

                “No.”

                She laughs. “You should. It’s fun.”

                She hangs up then, and Fenris doesn’t know how to react, his phone still to his ear, staring at the far wall.

 

Hawke attends their next Wicked Grace night, which is at Varric’s apartment because they are still officially kicked out of the bar and are too lazy to find another one.

                “Fuck pastry though,” she says, loudly, as Varric shuffles the cards.

                “What’s wrong with pastry?” Merrill asks as she sits down next to Fenris.

                “Everything! The lab is too small, the water is literally only lukewarm or boiling hot, nowhere in between, and there’s more than one goddamn mixing method!”

                Fenris spent many long minutes trying to figure out the optimal seat in relation to Hawke’s. Not next to her, not directly across from her—then it was ruined when Aevalle sat next to Hawke and waved Fenris over. He can’t get a good look at Hawke without being obvious from this angle, and he tries not to look sour about it.

                “The lab is not too small,” Aevalle chides, “the bread labs are just unnecessarily large.”

                “Sorry,” Varric says, “I’m with Hawke on this one. Can’t walk behind someone carrying a sheet pan without knocking them on their ass.”

                “It’s all the tedious little shit that bugs me,” Hawke says. “Like, face the chocolate garnish _this_ way. Have random dots of sauce, but not too random. What happened to rustic? Rustic is good.”

                “Rustic is what we say when it looks like shit,” Dorian says.

                Everyone laughs.

                “Are you going to sit there all day arguing or deal?” Cassandra snaps at Varric.

                “This,” says Varric, “is a very important conversation, Seeker.”

                “Yeah, and it can be had while you deal the cards,” Isabella says, dropping into her seat next to Merrill.

                He thinks that Merrill will be immediately distracted so Fenris leans back in his seat so that he can see Hawke around Aevalle, see the flush in her cheeks, the spark in her eyes as she leans forward to continue the debate.

                Instead, Merrill nudges his knee with hers. He turns back to look at her, a little too quickly.

                “You’re in love,” she says, sweetly.

                _Fuck_ , Fenris thinks even as he argues with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I don't think Fenris would last three years if he and Hawke had cell phones in the game.
> 
> Also can you guess which is my favourite party banter in the entire game? (I love Merrill so much, you don't even know)


	17. In This Moment and No Other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mildlly NSFW content in this chapter

It’s easy to pick the lock and slip onto the roof of their apartment building, and Aevalle stands with her bare feet in the puddles that have collected there from the rain. She slips into the first stance, drawing her arms up with slow, deliberate movements, bending and twisting her torso, her legs, closing her eyes and feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin after so long without it, rolling her head back and baring her neck as if to Elgar’nan’s scorching wrath.

                She draws herself inward, her breathing slowed, rhythmic, and the voices of her ancestors slip away, a distant hum on the edge of her awareness. They were so loud all night as she lingered near Merrill’s elluvian, and sorting through what they screamed in her ears was difficult enough without having to worry about making Merrill suspicious. More than she already is, anyway.

                She hasn’t looked this deep into herself in some time, and the core of her soul is so bright and burning, she almost flinches away from it. The anchor’s intertwined there, ancient and warm, and she is dimly aware of it sparking on her hand as her consciousness draws near to the place where its essence is indistinguishable from her own. She goes deeper still.

                She lingers there, examining the energy from all sides. The push and pull of her innermost depths as it draws energy from the lingering traces of mana in the world around her, from the veil just beyond the realm of physical touch, those small surges of magic through her blood that marks her as one of the people. Her body remains coiled, balanced. She waits until she has a feel for its rhythm—so different from the last time. Quicker.

                When she moves again, she moves with the rhythm in the deepest reaches of her core, the rhythm of the breath in her lungs, the wind in the air, the echoes of ancient things slumbering beneath the earth. When her body turns and twists through the stances, she feels the veil move with her, feels the wind follow her, feels the memory of this place flicker and whirl and dance as she moves.

                She forgets. She forgets Mythal’s awaiting judgement. Forgets the _virabelasan_ , the haunted eyes of a _shem_ man, a small elven boy crying in her arms as she sings a song in a language she doesn’t know. Forgets her failure. Forgets lying in the heart of an ancient sanctum, the name he calls her as they tumble where the faithful used to walk, her tears as her mother leaves her in the night. Her whole self is _sahlin_ , in this moment and no other, wrapped up in the heartbeat of both worlds, and she is aware of nothing that is not warm, bright, safe.

                Only when she has completed all the stances does she draw back out from herself, back into the awareness of who she has been and what she must be, and she is aware of him then, watching, waiting.

                “ _Da’sahlin_.” He’s smiling. She treasures the sight of it like the flower he gave her.

                “ _Nadas’lin_.”

                They do not bother with words.

                They fight one another, their weapons their fists, limbs, feet, the curve of her neck as she shifts a certain way to slip past his strikes, the hot breath that leaves his lips and lingers on her ear when he avoids hers, the way the light catches her piercings, his hair, her shining eyes, the softness of his skin when she caresses it instead of striking it, the gentle brush of his fingers along her bare arm when he does not grab her when he should.

                They are kidding themselves when they pretend it’s a true battle, that one of them will win. When she allows him to grab her, his lips are on hers, the fade burns around them and they’re in her apartment, she’s up against the wall, his hand is up her shirt, her hand down his pants, and this is familiar, safe, warm.

                When their clothes are discarded and her legs wrapped around his waist, they are not loud. His moans against her skin as he enters her are soft, adoring, and when her lips part and she utters his name it’s a whisper, a prayer, an offering to the goddess they serve. Her mouth leaves love marks on his neck, his fingers leave them on her hips as they move, slowly, reverently, _sahlin_ , and even as he grows harder inside her and she draws tighter around him they do not rush.

                They reach their climax with reluctance, and she murmurs _nadas_ into his lips when they draw to the inevitable end, draw so close together that no space is left between them. Their whole world is singular, the shuddering of their bodies feels as one, the sparks of their souls crushed together by love and the veil and the anchor burning in her palm, against his skin, and they do not part as they come back down, not at their mouths or their flesh or where he’s inside her, only their sweat between them.

                When he does pull away, she does not untangle her fingers from the mess she’s made of his long braid, does not pull her eyes from his, and she murmurs, “ _Sal_.” Again.

                He smiles for her, and they put aside _nadas halam_ a while longer.

               

It’s the Monday of a week off from school and the weather is far too nice for Varric to sit in front of a webcam and pretend to be paying attention to the merchant guild meetings. It’s the first day in almost a month the clouds have broken and glorious, perfect sunlight is shining down on Kirkwall in all her horrible, filthy glory. Sure, the gutters are full of trash no one’s bothered to pick up, and there’s a layer of filth on everything that the rain only seems to move around instead of washing away, but as long as you look at the sky and ignore literally everything else, Kirkwall’s a beautiful city.

                He has to goad Hawke into crawling her ass out of bed—she has her ups and downs lately, but he refuses to let her waste perfectly good sunshine when they’ve gone so long without it. But she shows up at his door eventually, looking unimpressed and vaguely put together. Barkspawn is crammed into the trunk of her hatchback, his head resting on the back seat and a line of drool falling from his jowls as he wiggles back and forth, presumably wagging his stumpy little tail.

                “Isn’t that Broody’s sweater?” Varric asks as he gets in her car.

                She shrugs. “He never asked for it back.”

                “If there’s a thing in this world I don’t understand…”

                “We are not talking about this. Where next?”

                They have to physically break into Merrill’s apartment building and tear her away from that bizarre mirror she keeps in her cramped bachelor suite. She has dark circles under her eyes and she’s still in the clothes she wears at work, leggings and a loose shirt, covered in flour.

                “Oh,” she says with a yawn, “you’re here already?”

                “Did you get any sleep last night?”

                “Well—I meant to.” She starts to take off her shirt in the middle of the room, and Hawke and Varric turn around. Just because the Dalish have no qualms about nudity doesn’t mean that Varric has any desire to see Merrill naked. “But Aevalle came over to help me with the elluvian last night, and we stayed up awfully late.”

                “What is it?” Hawke asks. “And why is Aevalle helping you with it?”

                “It’s a—” Merrill bumps against a table and curses. “It’s an artifact of Arlathan.”

                “And you just have it in your apartment,” Varric says.

                “Of course I do, Varric, where else would I keep it?”

              “You got me there, Daisy,” he grumbles. “She’s at this thing all the time, Hawke. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.”

                Hawke fiddles with the drawstring on the sweater. “I’ve been busy.”

                “The stories of my people say it’s—oof—one of thousands that used to span across the empire. Aevalle thinks it’s like a doorway.”

                “I thought you were just putting the glass back together,” Varric says. He glances over his shoulder and sees Merrill in her bra and underwear, finally pulling a pair of jeans on. He looks forward again. “What’s Bluebird helping with?”

                “It likes her,” Merrill says, as if that’s the most obvious thing and she can’t believe Varric even asked.

                “Can I wait where the demonic elven mirror can’t see me?” Hawke asks. “I think it’s giving me an evil look.”

                “Don’t be silly, Hawke, it doesn’t even have a face.”

                When Merrill is dressed they pick up Dorian, who is using his cell phone camera to check his moustache while he waits for them at the door to his building. He protests when Barkspawn gets drool all over his shoulder, and as soon as Merrill tempts the dog away from him he starts picking short little dog hairs off his shirt, one by one.

                “So,” Dorian says as Hawke pulls away from the building, “what’s the plan? Wander through the park and look fabulous? Check out that new restaurant in Midtown? Oh wait, we can’t, because someone couldn’t leave their dog at home.”

                “It’s not my fault Carver bailed again. He was supposed to take the poor thing hiking today.”

                Varric’s phone vibrates and he pulls it out of his pocket to check the screen.

                “Who’s it from?” Merrill asks.

                “Broody, of all people.”

                “Maybe he wants that rag back” Dorian says with a scornful glance at the sweater Hawke’s wearing.

                “I hope not, I haven’t washed it yet and it smells like dog.”

                “We should take you shopping, Hawke, you’ve forgotten what appropriate clothing for sunshine looks like.”

-{ what do you do when your room mate is having   
    sex in the living room

-{ they don’t know im here and i dont think theyre   
    going to stop soon

                Varric gapes at the phone.

                “I like the sweater,” Hawke says. “And unlike some people, I didn’t get to sleep in and powder my moustache for hours while my friends came to pick me up.”

                “You wax moustaches, you uncultured barbarian.”

                “You’re all welcome, by the way.”

                “Varric?” Merrill asks, leaning forward from the back seat to poke at his arm. “What does it say?”

                “Aevalle’s having sex in the living room,” Varric says.

                Hawke hits the breaks, hard, and there’s a chorus of car horns and screeching tires behind them.

                “Warn a man next time!” Dorian curses.

                “Whose living room?” Merrill asks.

                “Does it matter?!” Hawke exclaims. She flicks the turn signal on and pulls a u-turn, her tires screeching on the pavement as she revs the engine.

                -{ Okay you’re going to have to give me some background   
                   info here

                -{ Who’s she having sex with? What kind of sex?

                -{ Details, Broody!

-{ you are more than welcome to come in and see   
    for yourself

                -{ This is amazing. I’m calling you!

-{ dont, theyre against my bedroom wall

                -{ Holy shit

                “She’s fucking someone up against Broody’s wall,” Varric says for the benefit of everyone in the car.

                Dorian laughs. “A sovereign says she’s on top.”

                “I’ll take that. Two that she’s banging a woman.”

                “Deal.”

                -{ Okay is she against the wall or the other person?

                -{ And is the other person a man or a woman?

-{ why is this important

-{ this isnt helping me

-{ is dorian with you

                “Well?” Dorian says.

                “Hang on, he’s being useless.”

                -{ Broody this is literally the most important thing that has  
                   ever happened to you in your life

-{ lucky me

-{ i suppose escaping a lifetime of slavery is a close  
    second to this

-{ your useless im texting hawke

                -{ She’s driving

-{ who else is with you

                -{ Merrill, Dorian, and Hawke

                -{ Look I promise I’ll help you get out of this if you give   
                  me all the details

-{ what details

-{ im not going out there

                “Six sovereigns on a threesome,” Dorian says.

                -{ How many?

-{ venhedis

-{ just her and one other

                “Pay up,” Varric says, showing Dorian the phone.

                “Merrill,” Dorian says, “would you be so kind as to keep score?”

                Merrill giggles and pulls out her phone. “Hang on, let me get the app open.”

                -{ Guy or girl?

-{ a man

                “I owe you two,” Varric says.

                “You’ll owe me more by the end of this.”

                “I’m not ready!” Merrill exclaims, giggling.

                “Please tell me you don’t do this to me,” Hawke says. “Stop teasing him and help him get out of there, you can grill him later.”

                “In a minute!” Varric hisses.

                -{ Who’s on top?

-{ he is

-{ theyve stopped

                “Aw shit,” Varric says, “they’re done. He’s on top.”

                Dorian sighs. “Just when it was getting interesting.”

-{ ask merrill what sal means

                “Merrill, what’s ‘sal’ mean?”

                She giggles again. “You don’t say it through your _nose_ , Varric. It means again.”

                “Excellent!” Dorian says.

                Hawke laughs so hard the car swerves.

                -{ She says it means “again”

-{ of course it does

                -{ Why don’t you just sneak out?

-{ they might see me

-{ i might see them

                “Have you at least told him we’re coming to rescue him?” Hawke asks in the middle of changing lanes.

                “C’mon, Hawke, a little misery is good for the kid every once in a while.”

                “Tell him to climb out the fire escape,” Merrill says. “Poor thing can’t be stuck in there all day.”

                “Do no such thing,” Dorian says with glee. “A sovereign says they go to the couch next.”

                When Hawke eventually does pull up to Fenris and Aevalle’s apartment building, Fenris is sitting on the curb waiting for them, that red bandana on his wrist, no jacket and no shoes, blushing furiously.

                “No shoes?” Varric asks, leaning out the car window. “I know you elf types don’t like them but that’s a bit rebellious even for you.”

                Varric hasn’t seen Fenris look this embarrassed ever. “My shoes are by the door,” he says, not meeting anyone’s gaze. “With my keys. And my wallet.”

                “I’m sure Aevalle will let you back in when they’re finished,” Merrill says, moving over to the middle seat so there’s room for him to get in.

                Fenris hesitates, then with a sigh he grabs the handle of the door and yanks it open. Varric has a moment of pure glee watching him cram in next to Merrill, watching Barkspawn try to climb over the seat.

                “Well,” says Dorian after Fenris closes the door, “unless Fenris wants to keep your dog company in the car, we are now officially barred from all of the city’s establishments.”

                “Whatever for?” Merrill asks.

                “Most businesses like it when you wear shoes, Daisy.”

                “That’s—” Merril’s face screws up in outrage. “That’s awful! It’s not poor Fenris’ fault he was chased out of his home!”

                Of all things, Fenris starts laughing. He buries his face in his hands to hide it, but that only makes it worse because Merrill mistakes his shoulders shaking for him genuinely being upset. She makes a hushing noise and moves as if to rub his back, pulling her hand away at the last moment.

                “It’s alright, Fenris,” she says, “If you can’t go into stores, then I’ll stay out with you. I’ll stand by you in this, Fenris, you don’t have to suffer alone.”

                “Please,” Fenris says, still laughing, “stop.”

                Pretty soon Hawke can’t pull away from the curb, she’s laughing too hard, and Dorian just about riles Merrill up to overthrowing the government in retaliation for draconian footwear policies before they all calm down again.

                Eventually they just decide to stop off at a local place that does charcuterie and bread, and they take Barkspawn to a nature reserve just outside of town. Fenris does get a number of strange looks for his lack of shoes, and they have to drag Merrill away from each and every group they come across. Word must spread, somehow, because eventually no one even looks at them, their gazes down and moving with great haste. They sit by the river and eat their last-minute picnic while Barkspawn snoozes in the sun, all tired out from chasing rabbits between the trees.

                “You still have it,” Fenris says to Hawke when he thinks Varric can’t hear them.

                For his part, Varric resists the urge to gesture wildly to Dorian, and pretends to be busying himself packing up what’s left of their lunch.

                “Oh,” she says. “Did you want it back? It kind of smells like wet dog but...”

                “No.” It’s rather quick, and Fenris coughs as if to cover it up. “I mean. Not particularly. I have others.”

                “It’s yours, I didn’t mean to just take it.”

                “I... like how it looks on you. I’d like you to keep it.”

                Varric makes a point of distracting Merrill and Dorian as they continue their walk, and no one complains that it turns into a hike instead—except Dorian who does complain about getting mud all over his shoes. Hawke and Fenris hang back the whole while, and Varric is kind enough to keep far enough ahead so their conversation is private. Every once in a while he catches snatches—Hawke says she watered the cactus the other day, Fenris says the bandana has been helpful—and he suspects that they talk about nothing in particular. But it’s something, at least.

 

They eventually do make it to the bedroom, and with the orange-red light of sunset filtering in through her sheer curtains they lie together, her back to his chest and his face buried in her neck while his fingers trace the _vallaslin_ curling over her hip, down her thigh, and she draws her fingers along his jawline in long, slow motions. She stares up at the flower he gave her through half-lidded eyes as the sunlight begins to fall away from the corners of the room.

                When darkness is truly fallen, the moment draws to its end and he kisses her neck with love, finality, sorrow, and he shifts to pull away from her.

                She wants to say, _stay with me_. She curls her fingers into her palms to keep herself from reaching for him.

                Instead she helps him braid his hair again, and she draws her fingers across the marks she made on his neck. He catches her hand there, and she meets his gaze when he looks over his shoulder at her.

                He opens his mouth to speak. His gold eyes flick away from hers, and his lips press together once more.

                _Ena arla_ lingers in the air between them. _Come home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favourite chapter so far and I couldn't wait any longer to post it


	18. New Group Message

_New Group Message_

                VT -{ Group announcement

                VT -{ Bluebird just got laid in her living room

                VT -{ Trapping poor Broody in his bedroom

                VT -{ You may all now commence the teasing

IS -{ Kitten I’m devastated you didn’t invite me!!

IS -{ :’(

IS -{ Tell me you at least took pictures

IS -{ ;)

MS -{ It wasn’t with me Bela!

IS -{ :O

IS -{ Now I’m curious!!!

CP -{ Varric this is ridiculous

CP -{ What Aevalle does in her spare time is her own  
         business

CP -{ It’s absolutely disrespectful to announce it to the  
          world

                VT -{ It’s not the WORLD, Seeker

                VT -{ Someone’s a little dramatic today

IB -{ Good for her.

IB -{ Was it her secret boyfriend?

IS -{ There is no way she has a secret boyfriend!!

IS -{ I think I would know ;)

IB -{ What, because you occasionally have  
        threesomes?

IB -{ You know the Dalish give zero fucks about casual  
        sex right?

IB -{ Trust me, she’s got one.

IB -{ He lives out of town or something.

MS -{ Oooh I think Dorian met him!

IB -{ Okay wait back up.

IB -{ Dorian, you never told me this.

DP -{ What? When?

DP -{ Merrill are you making things up again?

MS -{ She called him Nadas-lin!!!!!

DP -{ That sour faced elf?

DP -{ I mean yes very attractive

DP -{ Nice thighs

DP -{ Nice ass too

DP -{ But he seemed a little grumpy

DP -{ Wait

DP -{ You mean I wasted a perfectly good opportunity  
          to make money off Varric

                VT -{ I am disappointed in you Dorian

                VT -{ Mostly because you never told me about this

                VT -{ But also because you think you would win

DP -{ Merrill never told anyone either!

                VT -{ Don’t drag Daisy into this

                VT -{ She’s perfect and you know it

MS -{ I thought everyone knew

                VT -{ I take that back

                VT -{ Daisy please tell me how you figured this out

                VT -{ And then neglected to mention it

MS -{ He gave her a flower at Satinalia!

MH -{ Okay woah back up

MH -{ Aevalle’s secret boyfriend was at my house  
          and no one told me?

DP -{ There is no secret boyfriend!

CP -{ He gave her a flower?

CP -{ What kind of flower?

                VT -{ What happened to respecting her privacy, Seeker?

CP -{ Shut it dwarf

MS -{ Oh it’s hard to describe

MS -{ It’s not from around here

IB -{ Because he lives out of town.

DP -{ Yes, amatus, you’re a brilliant spy, we’re all  
         aware

DP -{ Stop wasting screen space

MS -{ I don’t know what it’s called

MS -{ I only saw it once, when the clan was travelling  
         from Fereldan to the Free Marches

MS -{ We were passing through the Dales and we had to  
         go a bit further south than we expected

MS -{ To avoid some trouble on the highways

MS -{ And we were on the edge of the Arbour Wilds

MS -{ And I saw them growing in a clearing one night

MS -{ They were yellow and they looked like they  
         glowed in the moonlight

IS -{ Kitten I love you

IS -{ But you could have just said “I don’t know but  
        it’s super pretty”

IB -{ From the Arbour Wilds, hey?

IB -{ That’s interesting.

DP -{ Amatus you don’t know more about this than  
         any of us

DP -{ Stop pretending

IB -{ Rude.

IB -{ I have a plant guy.

DP -{ Of course you do

IB -{ I’m texting him right this moment.

CP -{ Why is she keeping a secret lover from us?

DP -{ Yes because Aevalle has such a reputation for  
          sharing everything in her life with us

IB -{ Probably because his family doesn’t approve.

DP -{ Okay now I know you’re full of shit

DP -{ You haven’t even met the man!

IB -{ I don’t need to.

IB -{ He gave it to her on the porch, right Merrill?

MS -{ I think so, she came back in with it

IB -{ Right before she went out the front door she  
        looked guilty.

DP -{ That was in Firstfall how could you possibly  
         remember that

IB -{ I told you, ben-hassrath.

DP -{ Of course

IB -{ Why look guilty if your boyfriend’s coming to  
        bring you a flower?

DP -{ Because she’s Dalish and she doesn’t  
         celebrate Satinalia

DP -{ And before you say anything smart neither  does  
         he, he has the tattoos

IB -{ And you’re telling me you can tell the difference  
        between vallaslin and tattoos on sight.

DP -{ This coming from the man who jumped from  
         “he gave her a flower” to “his family doesn’t  
          approve”

DP -{ Next you’ll be telling us he’s married with three  
         children

IB -{ Well he is older than her.

IB -{ Maybe inappropriately older, I’m not sure.

IB -{ What’s the nickname mean, Merrill?

MS -{ It means “Inevitable one”

IB -{ Interesting...

MS -{ That’s what I said!

DP -{ You keep saying that word

IS -{ I have to work now so I’ll have to miss the rest  
        of this

IS -{ :’(

IS -{ Aevalle love just invite him along too next time  
        don’t be shy!!!

IS -{ The more the merrier

IS -{ ;)

IB -{ Don’t you have to ask Merrill that first?

MS -{ Well if Dorian says he has a nice butt then I’m  
          alright with it

MS -{ Dorian has excellent taste in butts

MS -{ As long as he and Aevalle let me watch that is

                VT -{ Daisy

                VT -{ I can’t believe you

                VT -{ I have to burn my phone now

                VT -{ So I can go back to pretending you’re innocent

MH -{ Okay Dorian now I’m curious

MH -{ On a scale of stranger in chef pants to Fenris in  
          skinny jeans

MH -{ How nice was that butt

                VT -{ This is not where I anticipated this conversation going  
                         when it started

                VT -{ I’m starting to regret my life choices

DP -{ Tough one

                VT -{ Please don’t tell me that Broody is the universal standard  
                        for elven ass

                VT -{ Also he can totally see this too

                VT -{ In case everyone forgot

DP -{ He has an exceptional ass Varric

DP -{ And everyone knows he doesn’t actually read  
         these things

DP -{ I’m going to say Chef Cullen in those slacks he  
         wore that one time

                VT -{ I didn’t think this could get worse

                VT -{ But it did

MS -{ Oh that’s very nice now isn’t it?

DP -{ His thighs were superb though

DP -{ I can actually still picture them

DP -{ Do we have a scale for thighs?

FE -{ i read them

MH -{ Oh fuck

                VT -{ Told you

DP -{ Whoops

MH -{ I suddenly regret a lot of things I’ve said in these  
          group chats

DP -{ I don’t

DP -{ Fenris since we’re on the topic of Aevalle’s  
         secret boyfriend

FE -{ no

DP -{ Touchy

IB -{ Plant guy just got back to me.

DP -{ You made him up!

IB -{ I’m not copying and pasting what he said it was  
       called.

IB -{ Something in elven with a million syllables.

MS -{ Ooh send me a screenshot

IB -{ Done.

IB -{ Anyway he says it only grows in the Arbour Wilds.

IB -{ And no one has figured out why it glows or how  
        to keep it glowing after you pick it.

FE -{ not true

IB -{ No he was pretty clear on that one.

IB -{ Apparently it’s been baffling plant guys everywhere.

FE -{ its in our apartment

FE -{ glowing

IB -{ ... Interesting.

DP -{ Oh would you stop saying that

IB -{ Typing it.

DP -{ You are insufferable

                VT -{ Maybe he got it confused with some other bizarrely  
                       glowing house plant

                VT -{ Magic flowers all look the same, right?

CP -{ The same flower? Are you sure?

FE -{ yes

CP -{ All the way from the Arbour Wilds

CP -{ That’s a long way to take a flower, even for a lover

CP -{ Perhaps it means something more

CP -{ What is it called? Nothing is coming up on search  
          engines

DP -{ Please don’t tell me Cass is your plant guy

IB -{ I wish.

IB -{ My plant guy doesn’t have her taste in clothing.

CP -{ Ugh

IB -{ Speaking of can I borrow that one vest you have?

IB -{ I need it.

IB -{ For reasons.

DP -{ I never agreed to that particular fantasy

IB -{ Kadan I promise it’ll be great!

IB -{ I mean if you don’t want to that’s cool.

IB -{ I can use my imagination.

                VT -{ You know we had rules once about group chats

                VT -{ They were great

                VT -{ They lasted like five minutes but they were great

                VT -{ We should bring them back

FE -{ didnt you start it

                VT -{ No I did not

MH -{ No, Fenris has a point, you were the one who  
          brought up Aevalle’s sex life

                VT -{ Without specifics!

                VT -{ And it focused on the inherent comedy in the situation!

AL -{ How long have you been going on about this?

                VT -{ Ah, Bluebird, how lovely of you to join us

AL -{ You are all terrible people

AL -{ Except you Fenris

                VT -{ Of course the elf gets a pass

AL -{ Lethallin I’m sorry I didn’t realise you were there

AL -{ You should have said something!

AL -{ Oh shit we can’t talk about this here

MS -{ Lethallan you should introduce us!

AL -{ What

MS -{ Dorian says he has nice thighs and a nice ass

AL -{ Fenhedis

                VT -{ Scroll up, you missed what Isabella had to say on the matter

AL -{ Oh wow

MS -{ Is he still there? You should bring him to Wicked  
         Grace night

MS -{ And then maybe we can all go back to my place  
         after

MS -{ You and Bella and your Nadas’lin and I

AL -{ Oh

AL -{ Wow

AL -{ Uh

AL -{ No wait

AL -{ That is such a bad idea

MS -{ Why???

AL -{ I don’t even know where to start

MS -{ Oh I'm sure Bela has a few ideas

MS -{ But I would need a much bigger bed...

MH -{ Is anyone else ridiculously turned on right now?

IB -{ Yes.

DP -{ No

CP -{ Ugh

FE -{ please stop

                VT -{ That’s it I’m out

                VT -{ Talk to me when we’re not propositioning orgies on  
                       the group chat

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway I spent many many days trying to make that as readable as possible but if you're lost here's a quick guide:  
> VT - Varric. Indented  
> IS - Isabela. Unnecessary exclamation marks!! ;)  
> MS - Merrill. "Oh" every other sentence  
> MH - Hawke.  
> IB - Iron Bull. Full punctuation.  
> DP - Dorian. Always mad at Bull, lax punctuation  
> CP - Cassandra. Ugh  
> FE - Fenris. doesnt capitalize or use any punctuation  
> AL - Aevalle
> 
> So anyway back to your regularly scheduled plot next chapter
> 
> I'm going to be on vacation for a bit starting next week, so you'll have one more update before I go, and then probably nothing for at least two weeks. I've mostly blown through my buffer, what with exams, annoying but not particularly dramatic stuff in my personal life, and a particularly annoying block in the chapter I'm working on now. I'll be able to respond to comments and questions when I've got wifi, but I won't be able to post new material for a while.


	19. Victory Shots

It s probably the hundredth time in the last five minutes Aevalle has checked her phone, rolled up in plastic wrap and covered in smudges of bavarian cream.

                “Bluebird,” he teases her, “Your cream puffs are gonna burn.”

                She jerks in place and stuffs the phone back in the pocket of her oversized uniform pants. The weight drags them down further around her waist, but she doesn’t pause to pull them up, cursing in elven and making a mad dash for the rotating oven.

                By the time she gets there Dorian’s already pulled them out, an eyebrow raised at her frantic expression. “You’re awfully distracted today,” he says, sliding the sheet pans onto a rack.

                Merrill pokes her head out of the dry ingredient storage room next to the oven. “Are you not sleeping again, _lethallan_?”

                “I’m—I’m fine,” she says, even as she pulls her phone out of her pocket again to glare at its screen.

                “Behind,” Hawke says, and Aevalle shifts out of the way for Hawke to come through with two sheet pans full of empty tart shells. Dorian stops the oven for her and she slides them in, glancing back at Aevalle.

                “No word yet?” she asks, and Aevalle shakes her head.

                “About what?” Merrill comes back out with a plastic bin full of chocolate that’s half her size.

                “Fenris’ job interview,” Hawke says.

                Aevalle sighs. “Hawke,” she says.

                “What?”

                “Didn’t he tell you not to say anything?”

                “Broody’s got a job interview?” Varric says, bringing his own trays behind Hawke.

                “He just told me not to make a big deal out of it.” Hawke takes the trays from Varric and puts them in for him.

                “Oh! For his internship!” Merrill exclaims, almost dropping the bin. “Where is it? Is it somewhere nice?”

                “That’s the same thing, Hawke,” Dorian says, smiling. He shuts the oven and hits the button for it to begin rotating again. “Now Aevalle please, the details.”

                She crosses her arms and scowls at Hawke.

                “It’s at some Orlesian place,” Hawke says. “Defer? Deffer? I think?”

                “De Fer?” Varric suggests, his eyes wide.

                Aevalle groans. “Hawke.”

                Dorian outright laughs. “You must have heard wrong."

                Hawke scowls at him. “No, that’s the place. Why, is it a big deal?”

                “I’ve heard of it!” Merrill offers, excited. “It’s supposed to be very fancy.”

                “Very fancy doesn’t really do it justice, Daisy.” Varric’s smile is wry, and he looks over at Aevalle with an incredulous expression. “De Fer? Really? How did he line that one up?”

                “It’s just a restaurant,” Hawke says, “why is everyone freaking out?”

                Dorian shakes his head and throws his arm around Hawke’s shoulders. “You’re so oblivious that it’s actually adorable, you know that right? Fenris has a job interview at the top Orlesian restaurant in the Free Marches and you think it’s just any old place.”

                Hawke makes a face. “It’s just Orlesian food!”

                Dorian looks like he might faint. “Just Orlesian food, she says! That’s it, you’re not allowed to live in Hightown anymore. I’m revoking your membership privileges.”

                “There’s three bites of food on the plate! I can get six times as much Antivan takeout for a third of the cost, and they give me extra plastic cutlery.”

                Dorian smacks the side of her head, lightly. “ _Antivan takeout._ I bet you put ketchup on your eggs.”

                “There is nothing wrong with ketchup on eggs!”

                “Anyway,” he says, looking back to Aevalle, “I was under the impression that the fine dining establishments in this wonderful city don’t hire elves. Much less ones with... _tattoos_.”

                Aevalle taps her _vallaslin_ on her cheek, thoughtfully. They had all agreed in public to refer to Fenris’ lyrium markings as either _tattoos_ or _vallaslin_ to keep suspicion down, but anyone bringing them up always makes her uneasy. “If they do, it’s usually back end only. The hotels are worse for it though.”

                “Which is ridiculous,” Merrill grumbles under her breath, “and should be illegal.”

                Aevalle smiles at Merrill. “I got the job at Nightingale’s anyway, _lethallan,_ you don’t need to worry about it.”

                Merrill still scowls. “Well it’s not like I can afford to stay at a fancy place like that but I will never stay at a Dumar hotel in my life. They treated you horribly.”

                “What happened?” Hawke wonders, frowning.

                Aevalle shrugs. “Oh I had an interview there a couple weeks ago, the head chef liked me well enough but their hiring manager pitched a fit when he saw me. Got all my piercings replaced with clear plugs for nothing.”

                “Oh that asshole,” Hawke says. “Something Bran, right?”

                “Yeah,” Aevalle says, frowning. “Why?”

                “I met him at a thing,” Hawke says, smirking. “And I might know where he lives.”

                “No,” Aevalle says as everyone’s eyes light up at the same time. “Absolutely not.”

                Hawke and Aevalle’s phones buzz, and Aevalle practically drops hers in her hurry to check it. When she looks up from the phone again, she’s beaming with pride.

 

When Fenris turns the corner to go up the stairs at the end of his day of classes, he’s not expecting Isabela, Cassandra and Bull to be waiting for him. Isabela’s wicked smirk tips him off a little too late, and Cassandra and Bull have him in tow before he can complain.

                They’ve called in sick for him, someone has driven his car back to the apartment, and he’s crammed in the back seat of Cassandra’s truck with Bull while Isabela shoves a water bottle in his hand and urges him to drink. Because he’s an idiot, he does, and it burns the back of his throat.

                “ _Vishante kaffas_ ,” he curses. “What the hell is that?”

                “Victory shots!” Isabela exclaims. “Here Cass, your turn!”

                Cassandra is exhibiting a rare smile, and when she shakes her head Fenris thinks she’s almost laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “I’m driving.”

                “ _Boring_ ,” Isabela says, but she’s grinning.

                Bull takes the bottle from her and downs half of it. “That brings back memories!” the giant Qunari exclaims. “This shit is illegal here, Bela. Where did you get it?”

                Isabela only laughs and winks at him.

                He hands it back to Fenris, but he refuses it—one taste of it is more than enough for him for the rest of his life. “Where exactly are we going?”

                “Some new place on the docks,” Isabela tells him. “Dorian’s raving about it – probably all hipster bullshit and overpriced drinks but Varric knows a guy so he got us a private room.”

                The restaurant in question is called _the Crow_ , and the building used to be an old warehouse. It still has the old brick facade, touched up in places to keep up a vintage aesthetic, and the interior is dark, old red brick next to imported wood carvings, soft leather seats and linen curtains, a warm hearth at the center of it all—and the smell of Antivan spices permeating the air. A qunari woman smiles at them, and she leads them down the stairs with swaying hips, wearing a red dress with a swooping neckline and no back.

                There are a number of private rooms tucked away into the corner of the lower floor, walls lined with cushioned couches around two long tables, a gap between them to allow coming and going. Everyone else is already there—a chorus of shouts as they are led into the room alerts him to their presence, his eyes adjusting to the dark, intimate setting of the room with ease.

                Isabela breezes past him and plants herself next to Merrill, kissing the petite elven girl full on the lips without a trace of shame. Merrill, sufficiently distracted, reciprocates, pulling her hand from Aevalle’s on the table. Aevalle watches them for a moment with a warm smile, then turns to Hawke and whispers something in her ear that makes Hawke grin. And Hawke...

                Hawke is wearing that blood red lipstick.

                Someone sits Fenris next to Hawke, and then Varric is next to him, a Dalish waitress following behind with a tray full of shot glasses.

                The food arrives as communal dishes with sharing plates, and Antivan takeout from months ago has nothing on what they eat now. The flavours are bright, distinct, perfectly spiced and the meat is tender, the salads bright and crisp, and anything with fish in it is kept well away from Fenris’ side of the table so he can pretend it’s not there.

                The owner comes in at some point to speak with Varric, a blonde elf with tattoos on his face—not _vallaslin_ , Fenris thinks, but he isn’t sure—and he pauses to flirt with everyone at the table, Fenris included, but he’s too drunk at that point to be anything but annoyed by it. Hawke laughs at this strange elf’s smooth compliments of Fenris’ eyes, markings, facial structure, and she is warm at his side even if they are not quite touching. He tries to remember why for a while, because he certainly remembers her hands all over him, her mouth on his. Then it occurs to him that the problem in the first place is remembering, and he doesn’t know what to say to take it all back.

                At some point they all stumble onto the cobblestone streets, everyone but Cassandra in various states of inebriation, and Dorian leads them to their next destination on foot. It’s a club, dark and loud with bright flashing lights, and there’s more people than Fenris can feasibly keep an eye on, especially drunk as he is.

                He has no interest in dancing, so he sits at a table with Varric and Aevalle. Until Merrill and Isabela pop up out of nowhere and drag Aevalle into the crowd. She looks back at Fenris over her shoulder, apologetically, but he does not blame her.

                He can see Hawke from where he sits; she’s wearing red. She’s dancing with a handsome human, and as he grinds against her she looks up, all the way across the room, and her eyes meet Fenris’. Her expression is bold, her smirk wicked, and when she tilts her head back to expose her neck, it is not for the man with his hands on her hips.

                She’s drunk, he thinks. He looks down at his hands.

                “Oh hey, Broody,” Varric says. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts to mess with it. “I don’t know if this is... an appropriate time or anything, but your uh, sister replied to your email.”

                Fenris’ jaw tightens. He had Varric set up a dummy account and write emails on his behalf to this supposed sister—they are a few emails in by this point, and Fenris has memorized each of her replies.

                “Show me,” he says, slowly.

                Varric hands him the phone and Fenris reads the email three times with furrowed brows. Then he hands the phone back to Varric without a word.

                “Broody,” Varric says. “You have to give me a little more to go off than that.”

                Fenris grunts.

                “She’s coming to meet you!” Varric throws his arms in the air and makes broad gestures that Fenris doesn’t pay attention to. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

                Fenris looks up to Hawke again. She’s not looking at him, her face instead buried in the strange man’s neck.

                “You think it’s a trap?”

                He knows it’s a trap. Still he says nothing. He looks down at his hands and studies the lines of lyrium there.

                “Shit, Broody, you can still tell her not to come if you’re worried. You just got a great job! Made connections! You’ve got a life here now.”

                Fenris feels something very strange, then—like a flicker in his skin, something being drawn out of him. It’s subtle, dizzying. When the sensation is gone he feels sobriety slap him in the face, his breath return to his chest and his leg jerk as if in the middle of a dream about falling. The lyrium flares up in retaliation and Fenris tries to quiet it in a panic, mind racing. It’s like Danarius using the lyrium in his skin, but... gentle. Weak.

                He hears Varric’s concerned question as if through a fog. He looks up, and Hawke is slumped against the strange man, head rolling to one side as he shifts her in his grasp.

                “Varric,” he says, panic in his voice. “Templars.”

 

Hawke has done a lot of stupid things in her life. Standing there like an idiot while her baby sister tried to heal their dying father, only to watch Bethany get a bullet in her head from a Templar’s gun. Going off on one last job for Athenril, something to keep her off their backs for good, instead of driving her mother to Gamlen’s. That one time she tried to out drink Isabela. Drunk calling Fenris. Thinking about Fenris in general. Pretty much anything involving Fenris, really.

                Apparently, making out with a stranger with nice eyes to get a rise out of Fenris was one of those stupid decisions, and not for the reasons she thought it would be when she started.

                The Templar’s smite hits her with the force of a hammer, and the inside of her skull rings with it. She’s dimly aware of being picked up, of rough hands and a satisfied smirk, and she tries to blink to clear her vision but her eyes get stuck closed.

                She tries to reach inward for her mana, to feel for any scraps of it that are left. The effort makes her dizzy and her perceptions spin outward. Fenris burns like a beacon, his lyrium markings a skeleton of raw energy imprinted on her closed eyelids, and she reaches out for them without thinking. All the way across the club, she feels it stir under his skin like a heartbeat, a sharp pull, a warmth flooding into her body with the sharp sting of pain.

                Then she thinks she must be hurting him, and she draws back in alarm. She feels the power snap away from her and back into him, and _that_ hurts, and it sends her awareness spinning. She can feel something bright, sparking, on the dance floor, and it smells like her father’s aftershave, that cake she tried to make Carver for his first birthday without Bethany, sounds like Fenris’ laughter, soft and warm— _the fade_.

                It sparks again, green in her vision, and it’s so bright. She feels the part of her soul where her mana lies attempt to surge in response to it, but she’s empty, what little she took from Fenris churning in her core like an upset stomach, attempting to fill her.

                She stifles it when the Templar shifts her in his grip, cursing softly. She’s not sure she can handle another smite so quickly after this one, and she needs to have her wits about her, wherever she’s being taken. She reaches for Fenris again, tentatively—not to pull for the lyrium, but to see where he is. Closer now, brighter, so full of power she’s dizzy—she can taste the citrus tang of his lyrium in her mouth, as if she’s kissing him again, her lip dropping to drag along that delicious curl of it just below his mouth.

                He flares up brighter, and he moves through the crowd faster, as if it’s not even there, but the Templar is drawing her further away from him with long, quick strides. Soon the sounds of the club fall to a dull thumping of bass, the cold night air slaps her face and the wind throws her hair around, and she’s thrown down on something metal, hard. She can feel the vibration of an engine, hear doors slamming—the back of a van.

                She hears a muffled cry, beside her, and the van starts to move.

                “Carver?” she mumbles, finally able to open her eyes. She pulls herself up onto her arms to see him, properly see him, his messed up hair and his dark eyes. He’s been gagged and his legs and hands bound with zip ties, and Hawke struggles up to grab at the gag and pull it down.

                He gasps in relief. “What the fuck have you been up to now?” he snaps.

                She hears the screech of tires and the van lurches to the side. Carver tumbles headfirst over top of her, and she curses at him when his knee lands on her hair.

                “Me?! This is the first time I’ve seen you in weeks! How do I know you haven’t been smuggling lyrium behind my back?”

                Carver clambers off her with little grace. “They didn’t even tie you up! Blow the door open and get us out of here.”

                She tries to sit up, but the van turns again and she falls back, dizzy. “They hit me with a goddamn smite,” she says. She closes her eyes and tries to feel for Fenris again, but the van is lurching and bumping on the old cobblestone streets and she can’t focus.

                “Of course they did. Get these off me.”

                Instead she reaches for her bra, where she stashed her phone. She makes sure the GPS is turned on and the vibrate turned off and then she stuffs it back in.

                She grabs the zip tie around Carver’s ankles and tries to summon enough energy to melt it—what little mana she has at her disposal floods into her veins, and she grits her teeth at a new wave of nausea as the place it vacated feels like it’s shrivelling in on itself.

                The melting plastic burns her hands and she pulls them back, cursing. Carver manages to snap the zip tie at the place where she weakened it. “Right,” he says, “now my hands.”

                They hear cursing from the front, then a frantic scream, and then something heavy lands on the roof of the van, hard enough to dent it inwards. She feels Fenris then, warm and bright and shining, and his hand bursts through the roof, lyrium burning white.

                The van jerks to the side so sharply that Hawke swears two of its wheels come off the ground. Fenris withdraws his hand but seems to hold his footing. The van shifts again and she can hear his feet and hands scramble for purchase—another sharp turn and she hears him yell.

                When the van rights itself again, violently, she and Carver go tumbling. She hits her head, and remembers nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went to a restaurant in New York almost a year ago called [Spice Market](http://www.spicemarketnewyork.com/) and it’s probably the best meal I’ve had in my life. If Zevran ran a restaurant, that would be it. The modern docks area is loosely based on the meatpacking district as well.


	20. New Message from Unknown Number

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update today, make sure you've read the previous chapter

_New Message from Unknown Number_

-{ I can help

                -{ Who is this?

-{ Dizzy it’s all gone slow to return should have taken  
    more couldn’t hurt him shouldn’t take from him like  
    that even if it sings nice tastes like his lips tastes like  
    him leaving

                -{ Cole?

-{ Please let me help

-{ I’m sorry about last time

-{ I didn’t tell him I was coming

-{ It’s just me

                -{ Yes please help Hawke

                -{ Are you with her now?

-{ Their wings are clipped they can’t fly away

                -{ They?

                -{ Carver’s there too?

-{ Yes

-{ They call you Aevalle

                -{ That’s my name right now

                -{ Like you’re Cole instead of Compassion, right?

-{ Yes

-{ Aevalle blue vallaslin on copper skin warm smile  
    and eyes full of tears being brave when you’re  
    scared

-{ I wanted to be Cole to keep him alive

                -{ Cole not right now

                -{ I promise we can talk about this as much as you want later

-{ It didn’t work I had to be Compassion

                -{ Cole, focus

                -{ Are they hurt?

-{ Hurting

                -{ Physically, Cole

-{ Yes

-{ She feels so empty

                -{ Cole what does that mean

-{ Hard to see her

-{ Keeps a fluttering piece of him the piece she stole

                -{ Cole I need you to be more specific

-{ Keeps it right next to a flash of red on his wrist you  
    like prickly things this one will be easier to take care  
    of a tiny pearl the way he coughs when he’s pretending  
    not to laugh

                -{ Not about that

                -{ She’s alive, right?

-{ Alive

                -{ Do you know where they’re taking her?

-{ No

-{ But you do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly it's a wonder I've kept Cole out of this fic as long as I have.
> 
> ANYWAY I actually feel bad for this cliffhanger holy shit.
> 
> As I said previously, I'm going to be on vacation for almost two weeks, and immediately after I'll be jumping into my big girl job. I finally worked my way through the block that was happening in this particular story arc so hopefully I'll be able to jump right back into updating once I get settled in.
> 
> EDIT: Oh I forgot to mention Cole is referring to something [in this chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3639087/chapters/8467243). :)


	21. Trust Me

“You have to wake up,” someone’s saying.

                The floor is cold. Her head hurts. She feels so empty inside, like a chill spreading through her veins. She feels sluggish and sleepy, and she never wants to get up.

                “Please,” the voice says. A young man—eighteen, maybe? He sounds nice. Sweet. Comforting. “He’s worried you’re dead.”

                “Am not,” Carver says, beside her, sullen and sour.

                “Yes you are,” the voice says. “Leto, too.”

                Hawke jerks, her eyes fly open, and she stares at the cold stone floor in front of her face for a long moment before she can roll over onto her back. Her head is ringing with a hangover and the smite, still, and she can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. She groans and covers her face with an arm. She can feel the grit of dirt on her own skin and she grimaces.

                Carver is sitting with his back to the wall beside her, his hands now free. A glance at her left tells her there’s bars of some sort—what are they in, an old timey dungeon? She can’t smell anything but mould and old stone.

                “Who’s Leto?” she mumbles. She looks around until she finds the source of the mystery voice, the young man standing there. He’s a human wearing a grey hoodie and light washed jeans, his blonde hair falling in front of his face. He seems to have attracted none of the dirt of this place to him, and his eyes are pale, vacant.

                He blinks at her, hard. “You made your phone quiet,” he says. “But it wants to tell you something.”

                Her phone is still tucked in her bra—small blessings, she supposes—and she pulls it out to look at the screen. There’s a long crack across its surface that wasn’t there before, and she scowls at the number of missed messages.

                “Lucky you,” Carver says, “they took mine when they grabbed me. Where are we?”

                Several from Varric. She skims them.

                “Gimme a minute. They had to double back and get Cassandra’s truck and Bianca—oh shit they called Aveline.”

                “Oh fuck,” Carver says, half a relief and half a curse.

                “We are so fucked,” Hawke says.

                “She’s going to kill us.”

                Hawke starts laughing, and Carver joins in. It’s low at first, but quickly grows hysterical, wild.

                Someone hits the bars with something metal, and they stop. Hawke manages to raise her head enough to look up—a strange dwarf, eyes red, wavering in place.

                “Quiet,” he says. “The Hawkes must be quiet.”

                She blinks, and that strange boy—she’d forgotten about him—is behind the dwarf. He grabs the man’s neck and spins it around on his head like it’s nothing. The man wavers in place for a long, frightening moment before he falls to his knees, then crumples to the floor.

                “Holy fuck,” Carver says.

                The kid bends and takes the keys from the man’s pocket.

                Hawke’s fingers fly across the screen.

                -{ Holy shit Varric

                -{ Just woke up

                -{ Some crazy kid just spun some guy’s head around on his  
                  neck like a dog toy

                -{ Please tell me you’re close

-{ What the fuck

-{ Oh wait

-{ Aevalle says that’s her friend

                -{ Aevalle has a friend I’ve never met?

                -{ I’m offended

-{ Me too!

-{ Except she’s giving me shit now

-{ Because I asked if he was her secret boyfriend and  
    apparently it’s not the time for that conversation

                -{ I am going to ask him everything I can about her weird  
                  and mysterious past

-{ Maybe get out of there first, Hawke

                -{ Oh yeah

                -{ I got kidnapped

-{ But seriously though

-{ Grill him

-{ And then tell me everything so Dorian owes me  
    all his money

                The strange kid opens the door to the cell and stares at them. “We need to hurry,” he says.

                Carver looks at Hawke—like old times, she thinks with a small smile.

                She holds up her phone. “Apparently he’s Aevalle’s friend.”

                Carver looks from her to the kid and back again. “Do you have any friends who aren’t secretly crazy?”

                “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Hawke says. “Help me stand.”

                Carver helps her hobble down the hallway after the kid—she still feels groggy, half-asleep. Her body complains with every movement, but she grits her teeth and bears it as they clamber over rubble, slip around half-toppled pillars and stumble through dark hallways. She tries to take in as much as she can as they go, and she can see carvings of something horrific on the walls, waves of monsters she assumes must be Darkspawn, something tall and twisted that orders them on.

                The kid urges them to hide in a corner, and they all wait, holding their breath while a group of dwarves runs past. “The Hawkes have escaped!” one of them cries. “We must find them!”

                Their eyes are all red, their expressions focused on something that doesn’t seem to be there. Hawke shudders.

                “Why do I get the feeling this is neither of our faults?” Carver asks when they’ve gone.

                “Do you have a name?” Hawke asks the kid.

                He looks just past her for a while— _kind of creepy_ —and he says, “You can call me Cole, if you like.”

                “Cole,” she says.

                He ducks out of their hiding hole and they follow, Carver supporting her still.

                “Do you know what’s going on? What do they want us for?”

                Cole hums a little song—the one Aevalle does, sometimes, that familiar one.

                “Not you,” he says as he has to wait for Carver to help her over a collapsed wall. “Your blood.”

                “They could have killed us just as easily in Kirkwall,” Carver says, steadying Hawke as she teeters in place.

                “It doesn’t work right when you’re dead.” Cole rocks back and forth on his heels as he waits. “They tried that already.”

                Carver scoffs. “He’s not making any sense at all. Marian?”

                She scowls and tries to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. “You mean...”

                “Yes. This way,” he says, ducking into a room.

                Cole closes the door after they stumble in, and Carver helps Hawke lean against a wall to rest. She slides down, slowly, panting for breath.

                “You alright?” he asks.

                “How the hell do you do this?” She waves her hand in the air as if that will somehow illustrate her point. “Everything feels heavy. I can’t move.”

                Carver laughs. “Guess I’m good for something, then. Not that I’m looking forward to carrying you all the way out of... wherever the hell we are.”

                Cole kneels down and starts to pick the lock on an old chest in the corner of the room.

                “Hey!” Carver says. “Careful, there might be like, a freaky ancient curse on it or something.”

                “No,” Cole says. The lock springs open and he opens the lid. “I asked it.”

                Carver raises an eyebrow and says nothing. Hawke pulls out her phone again.

                “One fucking bar,” she says. “Where the hell are we?”

                -{ Aevalle your friend is very strange please explain

                She doesn’t get a reply.

                “Here,” Cole says, suddenly directly in front of her. Hawke almost drops her phone on the floor. He’s holding out a very old bottle, covered in a thick layer of grime. Hawke takes it from him, gently, and she rubs some of the black grease off with her thumb. Underneath it’s shining blue, gleaming and bright.

                “Is that...?”

                “Yeah,” she says. Her hands feel clammy. The closest she ever got to this shit was boxes of it, stolen from a Carta warehouse for Athenril. The red idol, far underground, before Bartrand closed the door and plunged her and Varric into darkness. Fenris’ skin on her lips.

                “You’re seriously gonna drink that?”

                She cleans the bottle off on her shirt as best she can before she pulls the string on the wax seal and pops the cork out. It smells clean and crisp—citrus, basil, a sweetness she can’t identify.

                “Bottoms up,” she says, and she downs it.

                The first gulp, it tastes like water, and she thinks, _this isn’t so bad_. Then something in her core _burns_ , the place where her mana isn’t, and she almost gags at the sensation. Her mouth is full of fire, her throat closes up and her stomach _rolls_ with a sharp, violent motion and she almost throws up into the bottle. But she can’t bring her arm down, can’t drop the damn thing, and her body shakes and she feels every physical muscle she has rebel with fury and rage, but whatever part of her soul her mana takes up hungers for more, greedily, and she gulps it down even as tears run down her face, even as her voice rises up in protest.

                She drops the bottle and her eyes roll back in her head—she can feel nothing but a burning all through her body as her mana surges through her again, brighter, stronger, and she is dimly aware of Carver throwing a hand over her mouth to cover her sobs of pain. _They put this shit in Fenris’ skin_ , she manages to think, and she sobs once more, but the pain is coming back down.

                “What the fuck was that?” Carver hisses. It’s not directed at her.

                Cole is wringing his hands. “It hurt,” he says, clearly distraught. “It hurts the first time. The others forget that, so I didn’t know.”

                She stands, slowly. There’s an aftertaste of citrus and sweat in her mouth that’s making her uncomfortably warm in a more familiar way, and she’s not religious but she begs Andraste for Carver not to notice. She’ll never live it down.

                “I’m never,” she manages to say, “doing that again.” She wipes her eyes with her wrist, feeling slightly embarrassed.

                “Are you... alright?”

                “Yeah,” she says, and she manages a smile for her brother. Shaking, but a smile nonetheless. “Better than ever. Where we headed?”

                They hear hurried footsteps coming down the hallway, a frantic shout.

                “They felt it,” Cole says. It seems like Hawke blinks and there’s knives in his hands—old, ornate. Her eyes widen as they spark with a visible, teeming life—runes?  How many different kinds of illegal shit is this kid into?

                He shoves the door open before Hawke can voice her surprise, and they charge into the hallway. Hawke calls fire and it comes, bright and hot and she laughs at the sensation of magic after even such a short time without it.

                The human at the front of the crowd is the Templar from the club, and when he sees the fire in her fists something bright and blue begins to shine around him.

                Carver has grabbed that heavy, ancient chest from the room—of all things!—and before the Templar can get the smite out, he lifts it over his head and throws it. It arcs, grimed up bottles spilling out and crashing all over the floor, before it hits the man square in the face and sends him flying backwards, his feet carrying forward.

                Hawke kicks out, sweeping low, and fire rushes from her to fill the hallway. They don’t stick around to assess the damage, they start running instead, and Hawke ignores the screams behind her.

                “That was amazing!” she laughs.

                “Thank me when we get the hell out of here!” Carver calls back. But he’s grinning, and strangely it feels just like old times.

 

Fenris rounds the corner to four smouldering bodies, the wreckage of what looks like an old box, glass shards all over the floor.

               Aevalle steps around the mess while he crouches to examine the bodies. She goes into a small room off to the side, and Fenris passes his hand over the closest corpse to him—a dwarf. As his hand nears the ember of a flame, the lyrium in his skin begins to glow ever so slightly.

                It takes a moment for the others to catch up, and he hears them all stop almost as one.

                “Fuck,” Varric says, Bianca slung over his shoulder—for all the good the weapon has done them in these close quarters. “They’re still... _smouldering._ ”

                “Thought she got hit by a smite.” The Iron Bull approaches and crouches next to Fenris, his good eye narrowing as he examines the corpse.

                Fenris spares a glance at the liquid on the floor, and Aevalle comes out of the room holding an intact bottle, wax seal and cork removed.

                “Looks like an old lyrium potion,” she says. “They must have stopped here to replenish her mana.”

                The Iron Bull gestures to the sole human corpse, in death still curled in agony on the floor. “This would be your templar,” he says.

                Cassandra comes up from behind them and kicks the corpse over onto its back. Her lip curls in disgust at the charred mess his face has become. “This chest must have been full of it, and her magic ignited it all.”

                “So much for finding out where they came from,” Dorian says. He takes the bottle from Aevalle and studies it curiously. “Do you know that raw liquid lyrium hasn’t been used by mages in over fifty years? Not since the tablet form was developed in Orlais. Much more compact, you see, less prone to poisoning anyone who handles it after it’s been processed.”

                “How interesting,” Fenris says, standing. “They can’t be far.”

                “I don’t know about everyone else,” Isabella says, “but we can’t keep this up.”

                Fenris bristles. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Aevalle rub the back of her neck with her right hand. Her split knuckles are gleaming in the light of Anders’ veilfire, her eyes glinting as they glance back and forth.

                “You may go back if you wish,” Fenris says. He’s been setting a fast pace, even though almost everyone else is struggling to keep up. His shoulder is bleeding where a bullet grazed him, and he refuses to let the abomination look at it, so he lets it be, long lines of his blood running down his arm to drip on the floor.

                Isabella sighs. “That’s not what I’m saying, Fenris.”

                “Then say what you mean,” he snaps, “and quickly. We don’t have much time.”

                “She’s saying there’s too many of them and we need a different plan than run blindly into whatever pack of armed dwarves we can find and hope we keep winning,” Bull says for her, crossing his arms. “Hawke is resourceful, and Carver isn’t as useless as we all think. And Aevalle says her friend is with them, and he’s capable. We have to approach this carefully.”

                “We need weapons,” Cassandra says, her machete in hand. “These people are too organized to fight as we are.”

                “Maybe there’s some in the rooms?” Merrill offers. “If someone left a box full of lyrium lying around then maybe they left some other things we can use.”

                From behind them comes the sound of running and shouting—footsteps approaching, fast. Fenris clenches his fists and the lyrium ignites in his skin, but Aevalle grabs his shirt and yanks it until he follows after her, stumbling a little down the hallway. He almost fights her, but the others charge after them, and Fenris has no choice but to follow.

                They keep running, following the trail of dust and grime in the floor, somehow outpacing their pursuers—until Aevalle turns, and Fenris sees the footprints continue straight.

                He stumbles to a halt. Behind him Isabella keeps following Aevalle without hesitation, the corridor too dark for humans to see the scuff marks in the grime on the floor. He feels the abomination brush past him, is practically bulldozed by Bull, but Merrill and Varric stop beside Fenris, scowling.

                “Bluebird,” Varric calls, “the trail goes this way!”

                Aevalle’s only response is, “Trust me!”

                “Come on!” Merrill says, and Varric follows her.

                Fenris lingers a moment longer, looking where Hawke has gone, until he can see flashlights in the hallway behind him, and with a snarl he turns and follows Aevalle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I'm back from Europe and I'm full of ridiculously good pastries but also ridiculously jetlagged. I didn't get much actual writing done but I think I worked through the couple plot-related things that were bothering me on some long bus rides, so I'm excited to get back to work on this again! Maybe after I'm done all this laundry... yikes.


	22. To Undo What Malcom Made

When Fenris catches up to the others, Bull is knocking down a door.

                It takes him two tries, but the rusted hinges give in and a bit of the wall crumbles away with the door as it falls, metallic and clanging to the cold stone floor. A cloud of dust rises up, and Aevalle steps through it without hesitation.

                Her hands are clenched into fists, her jaw set in a hard line. She’s nervous.

                One by one they follow her in, Fenris passing through last. Bull and Cassandra grab old shelves on either side of the doorway and try to block it while Anders’ veilfire flickers brighter, spreading to the corners of the room.

                The room is full of weapons—all covered in the same thick layer of dust and grime that has settled everywhere else in the Maker forsaken place. None of them are modern; swords and daggers of varying lengths, a few giant mauls that have long broken their wooden supports and crashed to the floor.  A few metal staves, their focus crystals dull with time. Aevalle is already in motion, taking a bow off the wall. It’s so unlike her own; larger, gleaming metal where she cleans it with the palms of her hands. As she pulls the string to test it, it gleams with a power Fenris hasn’t seen since Tevinter—weapon runes, inset at the grip.

                No one says a word.

                It’s Bull who breaks the silence, finally turning around from his work at the door. “I was thinking like, guns or something. But this might work.”

“You guys know how to use any of this?” Varric asks. “I sure as hell don’t.”

                Cassandra tucks her machete into its pouch on her belt. She tears an old shield from the wall, stoops to pick up a sword near it. She tests them on one another, gently, then more firm. “These seem to have aged well,” she says. She swings the sword experimentally.

                “Most of these have enchantments for durability,” Anders says. He takes a staff from the wall and channels mana through it. The crystal gleams, ages of dust falling away with his movements.

               They disperse through the room, quickly gathering what they can and testing to be sure it will not fail them in battle. Fenris alone does not grab anything—he watches Aevalle instead as she finds a quiver and arrows, slings it over her shoulder, finds a knife and tucks it into the back of her belt. She does not meet his gaze.

                “How did you know this was here?” he hisses.

                Her knuckles are white on the bow’s grip.

                They hear shouting in the doorway, and Fenris only hesitates a moment longer, trying to force Aevalle to meet his gaze. But he turns with a frustrated curse and grabs a broadsword from the wall. It’s heavier than the one Danarius liked him to use, liked to have him swing around and intimidate the other magisters. But it’s less ornate, too, and he thinks it looks more like what it is than the others he has seen—a tool for killing.

                Bull crashes through their makeshift barricade with one of those great mauls in his hands, laughing while he swings it, and Cassandra isn’t far behind him. Fenris raises his borrowed weapon and ghosts, lyrium burning as he slips through the carnage and becomes solid again at the other side of it all, at the backs of their attackers.

                He hasn’t used a weapon other than his fists in some time. He drives the blade of the weapon into the back of the first dwarf he sees, and it gets jammed in his spine. Fenris has to pause long enough to plant his foot on the fallen man’s back and yank the sword out—too late he sees a man turn, raise his gun. But he takes an arrow to the back of the skull and he wavers in place before he falls, never making the shot.

                _Trust me_ , she‘s said so many times. After all this time he knows that she will probably never tell him what this all means, his questions will be answered only by the biting of a lip and her gaze falling. His lips curl into a snarl, but he remembers long nights in the back of his car, her sobs as she begs him not to let Fen’harel take her, the number of times her arrows have struck the enemies at his back, and he does as she always asks.

                He feels a barrier rise over him—Dorian’s, practically shimmering with energy. It has the feeling of electricity about it, and it makes Fenris’ skin itch but he carries on, now aiming his blows so they are not lodged in bone, just in flesh.

 

They follow Cole at a run through corridors that reek of stale air and things long dead until he slows. Carver’s panting and Hawke can feel exhaustion in her limbs but she’s vibrating with mana, the tang of the lyrium potion still lingering at the back of her throat.

                Cole gestures for them to be silent, and they follow him out of the hallway and out onto a walkway that curves around a wide, circular room. Cole crouches down next to the railing and peers between the rusted iron bars, and the Hawke siblings join him as voices drift up from below.

                “We have agreed to assist you in this matter,” someone is saying in a thick Tevene accent, “but it cannot be done unless you manage to keep a hold of at least one of them.”

                There’s some more frantic mumbling—the dwarves, Hawke thinks, but she can’t make out what they’re saying.

                “Why are there so many dwarves here?” Carver hisses. “And what do they want?”

                “And why are they working with the Venatori?” Hawke wonders, peering at the cut of the man’s suit down below. A guess, really, but no one’s mentioned slaves yet so they can’t be after Fenris. But then they kidnapped Hawke and not Aevalle so maybe that one doesn’t make sense either...

                “It’s so old—abandoned. No one knows it’s here, we can make it ours, a place to put the lyrium while it waits for a new home.” Cole rocks forward onto the balls of his heels, hovers there for a long moment, then rolls back. “Then the whispers start, and they need the Hawks, to undo what Malcolm made.”

                “Dad was here?” Carver looks at Hawke with a scowl. “When? Why?”

                Hawke can’t help a smirk. “Does it really shock you that our particular brand of getting involved in weird shit runs in the family?”

                Carver actually laughs at that—it’s the beginnings of that awful, deep guffaw she hasn’t heard in years, and he has to clasp a hand over his mouth to stifle it so they aren’t heard.

                Hawke grins like an idiot, and Carver rolls his eyes at her.

                “You laughed! At one of my jokes!”

                “Clearly it’s the kidnapping talking. I’m traumatized.”

                Of course Hawke has the perfect retort ready, but suddenly below them there is a blue-white flash and a snarl—and Hawke blinks and Fenris is suddenly there where he wasn’t before, driving a broadsword of all things through a man’s torso. Behind him, someone takes an arrow to the head as they turn to strike his open back.

                She can see Bull and Cassandra charging in, Isabella ducking around the carnage, keeping to the wall to find an opening. Hawke grins and jumps onto the railing.

                “No!” Cole says, just as Hawke jumps off.

                She doesn’t hear the rest of his protest. She falls only a moment, and she lands on a Venatori mage— _hypothetical_ Venatori at this point—with flames pouring from her fists, grinning from ear to ear.

                “Mind if I—Ow!”

                “Don’t even,” Anders says.

                She rubs the back of her head. “That hurt!”

                “Not as bad as that pun would have. Look out!”

                Just as Hawke whirls on her heel, the dwarf behind her clutches at his face and falls to his knees, screaming, the sparks of a terror spell around his eyes. With a whirl of Anders’ staff and a loud crack on the skull the dwarf is down, and Anders is moving again, spirit magic at his fingertips.

                Hawke throws a barrier over herself just in time to deflect a gunshot and she searches for Fenris. She can see him burning in the darkness on the other side of the room, throwing his sword against a Venatori barrier. It blazes, then bursts under the pressure, and Hawke can hear the man’s screams.

                A dwarf comes at her from her left, and Hawke spins to deal with it but he’s hit in the back by chain lightning. She doesn’t even have to channel magic to her foot, a roundhouse kick on its own enough to crack the poor man’s neck sideways. He immediately gets back up again and totters off to jump on the back of one of the Venatori, Dorian’s magic blazing from his eyes.

                Hawke sees Fenris again and she takes off. She slips behind Bull as he crushes a man’s skull with his maul to deflect a blast of frost aimed at his open back. Her flames burn so hot that a fine, warm mist hits her in the face, nothing more. She laughs as she lunges forward and she feels the Venatori’s barrier snap under the pressure of her fist, wreathed in flame.

                There’s a bullet from her left side that takes down her barrier, and Hawke blinks at the sensation of it vanishing. Someone yells her name and she’s aware of the dwarf at her right just a little late. She throws her arm up to protect herself, his long knife catching her flesh there and dragging along it as she deflects it. Not too deep, but her blood spills forth nonetheless, and she turns her yell of pain into a snarl of rage as she turns her flames on the strange dwarf. He crumbles to the ground and his knife clatters on the floor, kicked away by the flurry of fighters’ feet.

                Aevalle is beside her so goddamn suddenly that Hawke jumps.

                “Maker!” she breathes. “How did you do that?”

                “You were supposed to stay out of sight!” Aevalle snaps. Her eyes are wide with panic, and Hawke doesn’t understand why.

                She grabs Hawke’s wounded arm.

                “It’s just a scratch,” Hawke says, feeling strangely like a troublesome child under Aevalle’s scrutiny.

                “Where’s the key?”

                “Uh—the what?”

                “ _Elgar’nan_. The knife, Hawke!”

                “You know, I am getting a little sick and tired of you having all this strangely specific knowledge about whatever danger of the week we happen to be facing with no— _why is the floor glowing._ ”

                Aevalle looks down. Through the thick layer of black grime that covers the floor, a green light is pouring out, following along an intricate, winding pattern carved into the floor that Hawke hadn’t noticed before.

                The mark on Aevalle’s hand sparks, and Aevalle yells something— _something like move or run_ —but Hawke can’t make it out because something crashes up through the floor in the center of the room.

                Stone and rubble and a few unfortunate Venatori fly in every direction, and Hawke is dimly aware of Aevalle yanking her arm, her feet stumbling to follow. Something green and sparking is at the center of the room—a rift, perhaps, but somehow it feels different, weaker. She can hear a frantic cry—crackling like the playback of her mother’s old records—and a voice like her father’s shouting, but she can’t make out the words.

                Then she blinks and the rift is gone, and a head the size of a small car bursts through the floor, letting loose a scream so loud and vicious that everyone in the room stumbles—except Aevalle.

                Hawke slips from her grasp and hits the floor. She blinks blearily at Aevalle’s feet, her delicate sandals that were probably white once, and she sees her standing steadily on the floor, the hand holding her bow sparking brilliant green. Aevalle stands and stares down the thing crawling up from the basement, her eyes wide but her jaw and lips set in a straight, thin line.

                Hawke looks back over her shoulder at the thing climbing up from the floor, and she realises it’s a goddamn dragon.

                Oh it’s a fucked up dragon, not at all like the ones she’s seen pictures of on the internet or even that one in the Orlais national museum, taking up an entire room and probably worth more than the entire country of Rivain. This thing is twisted and dark, and a smell that’s almost like rot and death but somehow even worse assaults her senses. Its wings are twisted and broken, the membrane torn and burnt, and there are places where its flesh hangs loosely from its skeleton.

                Every single one of her senses screams _wrong_ just looking at it, hearing its ragged screaming. She lays there, completely transfixed, watching black tar drip from its jaws. For once in her life, Hawke opens her mouth to say _we need to get the fuck out of here._

                And then one of Aevalle’s arrows hits it square in the eye, and it throws its head back and screams in rage.

                “Run!” Aevalle yells, leaping over Hawke’s feet and running _towards_ the goddamn dragon. “I’ll hold it off!”

                “Are you for fucking real right now?” Hawke yells back, scrambling to her feet.

                The dragon reaches for Aevalle with an enormous claw—only to stop when something hits its flesh, burying in a place where its great scales have already been burnt away. It turns its head up to the balcony and snarls.

                “Aw shit,” Hawke can hear Varric curse, and the dragon draws its head back, taking in a deep breath.

                Hawke calls fire to her hands without thinking, yelling, and there’s a blur in front of her and Fenris is there, swinging that sword over his head and down on the dragon’s other front foot, right between the claws. The dragon moves to snap Fenris up in its jaws and Hawke throws her flame as hard as she can, watching it crash into the thing’s already wounded face.

                Fenris jumps back, unharmed, and the dragon whirls on her, snarling a toxic breath that makes Hawke’s stomach heave even as she starts to run in the other direction. Dimly she’s aware of Bull yelling, crashing into the dragon’s back leg to draw its fire away from her, and she feels a barrier hum into place around her—soft, flexible, strong. Anders’ magic.

                Hawke sees Merrill run past and pause, blood dripping from her wrist, and great roots form as if from thin air itself, curling up and around the dragon’s limbs. Even as it moves it snaps them, snarling, but there are new wounds opening in its flesh, and its screams of rage are doubled.

                Then Fenris is at her back, and Hawke pools her mana into Anders’ barrier, spreading it over both of them, reinforcing it.

                Dorian’s lightning sparks across the dragon in front of them and lights up Fenris’ face, breathless and grinning— _grinning_! The sight makes her dizzy, and she laughs.

                “Shall we finish this quickly?” he says.

                “Not too quickly,” Hawke says, “I’d like to enjoy this a little.”

                Then Dorian yells for backup, and there is no more time for talk.

                It’s bloody, and messy, and more than once Hawke and Fenris narrowly avoid the swing of a tail or the slash of claws. Once she sees Bull go flying, only for Anders to patch him up and for him to run back in again, yelling something that Hawke doesn’t understand. She thinks she can see Cole every once in a while, his figure dark and darting, and more often than not Aevalle is with him, slipping in and out of sight almost as easily as her strange friend.

                When Fenris attacks, she draws the dragon’s acid breath away with her flames. When it rebounds on her Cassandra crashes into its face with her shield and a snarl, and then Varric lines up a shot at its eyes, nose, mouth. Dorian’s lightning covers Merrill while her stone and spirit-crafted roots keep its tail from crushing them all alive. Isabela finds the weak spots on the backs of its legs, in the places where its blood already flows, and Bull is wherever he can be, howling with delight.

                This is not at all like their battles to seal the rifts. It’s long, and bloody, and more than once the dragon leaps away from them and tries to fly on its burnt, battered wings but fails, almost crushing them when it lands again. Towards the end its cries are almost pitiable, twisted as they are, and its movements become frantic. It lashes out more erratically, and pretty soon Fenris is clipped in the chest by the thick bone of the wing before Hawke can draw the dragon away. More than once Merrill goes tumbling, pulled up by Dorian, and it’s impossible to tell what on Bull has been healed and what hasn’t.

                Cassandra is almost crushed alive under the dragon’s foot before the combined efforts of Fenris, Aevalle and Hawke are enough to draw its attention away from her. Cassandra literally shakes it off and rushes back in, none worse for the wear.

                But they wear it down, until it collapses under its own weight, limbs curling in pain as it tries to fight them. It’s Aevalle who storms up to the thing and drives an arrow at full draw through its eye socket, then another, until it stops twitching, her foot planted on its skull. Then she keeps going, and Hawke is the only one who can see her hands shaking, tears streaming down her face.

                The sound of everyone cheering rises up behind her, Bull’s the loudest and most frightening. Anders finally sits Fenris down to look at his ribs, even though they bicker, and she can hear Merrill’s soft protests as Isabela carries her over to the healer to look at her twisted ankle. Carver and Varric run up, Varric laughing at how ridiculous this all is while Carver looks sullen and relieved at the same time.

                “Aevalle,” Hawke says, softly. “We won. You can stop.”

                Aevalle’s hand reaches back and she grasps empty air, her quiver empty. Her breath catches in her throat and she chokes on it, falling to her knees. She says a rush of words in elven that Hawke can’t dream of repeating, let alone guessing at their meaning, and Hawke can’t figure out what to say in response.

                There’s something about the curl of her hair as it spills over her shaking shoulder, the sound of her hiccups as she sobs that reminds Hawke of Bethany, so Hawke does the only thing that she ever could.

                She kneels down—practically on top of the dragon’s head—and takes Aevalle up in her arms. The elf stiffens, then turns into Hawke’s embrace and buries her face in her shirt. She grabs fistfuls of Hawke’s sweater and cries like a child, choking on air as she tries to breathe, shuddering, shaking. Hawke pets her hair, brushes her hand against the half of her head that’s shaved, and she tries to hush her, tries to comfort her, mind whirling.

                Merrill notices, but she bites her lip and says nothing. A glance at Fenris and Hawke can see confusion and concern all over his features—but Cassandra is strong-arming him into staying put while Anders looks at the bullet wound in his shoulder.

                “She wanted to protect you from this,” Cole says beside them— _so suddenly there_. “Aevalle, a badge a reminder hope swelling in the chest, never wanted the anchor to weigh you down, never meant for you to take up her burden. You can let her go. They can help you.”

                “Go away, Cole,” Aevalle blurts.

                Hawke blinks and the strange boy is gone.

                “You’re really going to have to explain how he does that,” Hawke says.

                “I don’t want to,” Aevalle mumbles into her shirt.

                “What?”

                Aevalle’s hands are white-knuckled fists. She exhales and shoves Hawke away, scrambling to her feet. “I don’t want to explain anything!”

                She’s yelling now, and everyone notices.

                “You don’t have to,” Hawke says, quickly, “I was joking. Sorry.”

                “Yes!” Aevalle yells. “Yes I do! Don’t you get it?”

                “Aevalle,” Hawke says, “I know it’s been a bit of a rough evening, but maybe we can talk about this _not_ on top of the corpse of a dragon. Or not talk about it. Whatever you want to do.”

                Aevalle spits something back at her in elven. The mark burns bright in her palm and she clenches her fist, face twisting in pain.

                As the mark burns, something stirs under their feet. Hawke looks down, alarmed, and she feels the stone under them begin to shift, hears the groan of ancient wooden beams and the grind of stone sliding on stone, bright green light sparking between the cracks.

                She grabs Aevalle—who fights her, yelling—and pulls her into her arms, into her barrier, as the floor gives out from under them and they fall with the dragon’s corpse.

                Hawke is dimly aware of yelling. Fenris, Cassandra, Anders, everyone else... but the further they fall, the snap and hiss of Aevalle’s mark and the strange rift-like essence in the air pouring over her, the more it sounds like Malcom Hawke, younger than Hawke can remember.

_Stay with me, Lavellan!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [Actually_Fen_Harel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Actually_Fen_Harel/pseuds/Actually_Fen_Harel) for beta work for me!
> 
> I don't think I have much to say about this chapter except that the dragon isn't what's supposed to be at the end of the Legacy questline, is it?


	23. He Said He's Compassion

“How long?” Fenris asks, late one night, their backs to each other in the car. He’s not one for talking, normally, but there’s a storm outside, and although the lightning is infrequent he’s tense waiting for it, hands balled into fists.

                She makes a joke. Fenris can't remember what it is later, but in that moment he laughs, dry and low. She hums softly to herself, and he doesn't ask again. He listens to the rain on the roof of the car and shivers a little. Her back is close enough to his to feel a hint of her warmth, and part of him wants to move closer. The part that doesn’t instinctively shy away from touch. That forgets, just briefly, what’s been done to him, what he’s done.

                “I was sixteen,” she says. 

                He curses, softly. It doesn't feel like enough, somehow, and he feels hollow at the inadequacy of it. But it's the only offering he has to give.

                “How about you?” she asks.

                “Nineteen. I think.”

                She sighs. “ _Ir abelas_ , Fenris,” she says. He's not sure if it's for their argument earlier or out of sympathy.

                “You're not Danarius,” he says, bristling at her attempts to comfort him. It’s not pity in her voice, but there’s a sorrow there that he doesn’t know what to do with. “This had nothing to do with you.”

                “I—” she shifts, uncomfortably. “I just wanted...”

                Her voice trails off, helpless and feeble into the night. 

                There’s an apology on the tip of his tongue, but it doesn’t come out. Instead he sighs and shifts further into his blankets, a little away from her. “Get some sleep,” he says, sounding more gruff than he means to. “We have a long day tomorrow.”

                “I was sixteen,” she says, her voice low.

                Fenris blinks in the darkness. He feels her beside him, not quite touching him, the rhythm of her breathing steady at his back.

                “Aevalle,” he says.

                “Someone took Una,” she continues. “Some shem. Took her into an old temple near where we were camped. Emren and the first went with me.” 

                Her voice shakes. She hesitates.

                “You don't have to,” he says.

                “The shem had something,” she says. “An orb? He was... ranting. Looking for a Lavellan—and we didn’t know what he meant, but he was looking for one Lavellan, specifically. And when he saw me he just shoved it at me. And when I touched it...”

                Her palm sparks in the darkness, casting the interior of Fenris’ beat up car in a sharp green light. He can feel her shaking at his back.

                “It—it burned everything, Fenris. Worse than fire. And then I woke up, and... they were gone. All of them.”

                She’s crying now—he can hear her breath shaking, the waver in her voice, the shift of blankets as she tries to press the tears away from her eyes with her wrist.

                “I couldn’t—I couldn’t stay, and I ran and I—”

                He’s not sure who’s more shocked, Aevalle or himself, but Fenris turns around and goes to wrap his arm around her. They both freeze at once, at the unfamiliarity of touch where they’re so used to the vastness of their pasts between them. Fenris almost pulls back, but Aevalle rolls over and he draws her into an embrace, her tears hot on his chest as they soak through his shirt. She clings to his clothing and sobs, trying to choke out another explanation, another secret, but she’s incoherent, her words half-elven and half-Trade.

                Fenris hushes her and holds her tight through it all, and he jerks when lightning arcs across the sky somewhere far above the Darktown lot they’re camping out in, light flickering through the windshield, and he cringes when the thunder rolls after it.

                “When can we stop running, _lethallin_?” she whispers when her tears are spent.

                He has no answer for her, so he holds her tighter instead.

 

Fenris is barely aware of being held back when the floor gives way. Barely aware of having moved at all, but the lyrium is burning and he seems to have crossed an incredible distance away from the abomination in the blink of an eye. Not enough—the yawning chasm that’s opened up under Hawke and Aevalle is still ahead, still too far away.

                He is dimly aware of Bull shouting in his ear, only partly aware of his own panicked struggle against the Qunari’s hold. His ears are ringing as the dust settles, and he finally breaks free and he runs, frantic, numb—

                He stands on the edge of the collapsed floor, and he stares down, down, seeing only rubble.

                The ringing clears a little and Fenris is distantly aware of someone shouting. Carver—his sister’s name. Merrill’s shouting Aevalle’s name, something in elven, shouting for Hawke and Isabela is hushing her, softly.

                Fenris can’t say a word, the markings in his skin slowly falling still. Hawke, bright and wild and laughing and Aevalle, sharp and clever and kind—there in one heartbeat and gone the next. After everything, just like that.

                He closes his eyes. Someone’s tugging at his arm, trying to pull him away from the edge, but he stays where he stands, unflinching. Isn’t it his job to comfort Aevalle? To protect her? If he’d been there instead of Hawke, maybe that would have been enough. A burn of lyrium and they’d both be safe, this whole thing just another laugh later over drinks.

                Or Hawke would be standing where he does now.

                “No,” Merrill is saying. There’s the sounds of a scuffle following her voice, and Fenris realises she’s trying to fight her way toward the chasm. “No, you don’t understand. They have to be alive—Aevalle can’t—Hawke can’t— _ven tu vir_ , please.”

                “No,” Aevalle’s strange friend is saying.

His voice is just over Fenris’ shoulder and he turns around, startled by the closeness of it so suddenly where before there was nothing but empty air. He’s standing, teetering over the edge of the yawning hole, rocking back and forth on his feet. In the dim light of this place there is something not entirely lifelike about him, and Fenris scowls.

“Not dead. Breathing—it’s hard, it’s sharp and something’s wrong—flutters, faint, failing. The shield her wings made burst so sleep came— _stay with me Lavellan_ —sorrow doesn’t suit him anymore.” His strange, pale eyes glance up and lock onto Fenris’—somewhere just past Fenris, really.

                He can’t help the chill that runs up his spine.

                “The hawk is dreaming, and it’s not hers. She needs to wake up.” A sharp, ragged intake of air. “No, no, no. He promised— _no, no, no_ , she doesn’t want him here.”

                “You,” Carver says, approaching. He points an accusing finger and his hand shakes, “Cole. You said they’re alive?”

                “Yes.”

                “How do you know that?”

                “It hurts,” he says. His voice is low and flat, but there’s an imitation of pain around the edges. “It hurts and it’s not stopping. She needs to wake up—he knows and he’s coming.”

                “Who’s coming?” Cassandra asks.

                Cole looks at Fenris again.

                “A dream-walking apostate,” he says, his tone a strange, haunting mimic of Fenris’ own. Fenris can feel his heart hammering against his chest. “Confessed it and more in the car, backs and blankets and broken promises between you.” He blinks, jarringly, deliberately. “She tells you more than the others. Would tell you everything—but the hurt’s old, odd, frightening. Swore an oath to a mother, all-mother, but Mythal died in a glade and there’s only vengeance, only justice waiting. Fen’harel laughed when he locked the gods away, so why did he cry over her corpse?”

                “Solas is coming?” Fenris interrupts, eyes narrowed. He clenches his fists to feel rage instead of panic—but all he can think of is Aevalle begging him not to let the Dread Wolf take her, delirious for lack of sleep.

                The boy wrings his hands. “He’s already here.”

                Fenris leans over the edge of the edge of the hole—he wonders if he can phase through all that rubble. Probably not without getting himself killed. He has an urge to try it anyway, but he closes his eyes and tries to _think_. He’s no good to Hawke or Aevalle if he gets himself killed, or if he collapses more rubble on top of them.

                “How do we get to them?” Carver asks. “There’s got to be a way down there. Right?”

                Cole tilts his head to the side and speaks with halting words, as if he’s not sure. “Yes. Very dark. Winding. Her spirit’s weak but it’s on fire. Find a way down, I can lead you to them.”

                “Wait,” Cassandra says. She still has her borrowed shield strapped to her arm, her sword hanging loose but controlled in her other hand. The sleeve of her leather jacket on her sword arm has been ripped off in the battle, her short hair tousled and greasy with filth, but her expression is hard and she still cuts an intimidating figure. “Cole, is it?”

                “Sometimes.”

                That doesn’t seem to appease her. “How do you know all this?”

                “He’s a spirit,” Anders answers, coming up beside Fenris. His eyes gleam _so briefly_ and Fenris tenses, but Anders blinks and his eyes are dark again. He crosses his arms and scowls. “Of what sort I’m not sure.”

                “Hello Justice,” Cole says. He tilts his head to the side. “But you’re trying to be Vengeance now. Is it working?”

                Something strange and pained flickers across Anders’ face. “Hello,” he says instead of whatever he might have. “Duty? Loyalty?”

                “Freaky mind reading,” Bull offers in a low grumble.

                “Compassion.”

                Anders seems to consider him. “Interesting. What did Cole promise you, Compassion? What deal did you make?”

                “Blondie,” says Varric. “Aevalle said we could trust him.”

                Anders spares Varric only a glance. “And now she’s gotten herself and Hawke buried alive right after having a breakdown on top of a dragon’s corpse. Maybe we should be asking some questions about who and what exactly this is, since Aevalle’s never been particularly forthcoming with answers.”

                “I want to help,” the spirit says.

                “You didn’t answer my question.”

                Cole blinks—Fenris has the impression he only does this when he remembers he’s supposed to, since he does it with such deliberateness.

                “I don’t remember. I made myself forget.”

                Fenris feels a chill run up his spine. He swears, softly, and starts to pace. “This is getting us nowhere.”

                “I tried to be Cole, but Cole was gone. I’m sorry that doesn’t help.”

                “How do you know Aevalle?” Cassandra asks.

                He tilts his head to the side. “How do you?”

                “ _Fastevas_ ,” Fenris curses. He approaches the strange thing and says, “Tell us why we should trust you.”

                Cole ducks his head.

                “Are you working with Solas?”

                “Sometimes.”

                “Are you helping him find Aevalle?”

                “No.”

                “Then why are you here?”

                Cole stands still for a long moment—so long Fenris wonders if he’ll ever respond.

                Just as Fenris opens his mouth to ask another question, the spirit speaks with a rhythm that’s almost Dalish.

                “She leaves on a night with no moon— _watch over her for me, Cole_. She’s so small. Tucking a dark curl of hair behind a pointed ear; the last thing she thinks of, before everything bubbles up in her throat and it’s nothing but _air, please, air_.” He tilts his head. “Keeper calls me a demon, but she asks me to stay. I stay.” He blinks again, rapidly. “She asks me to go, I go. But not far. Never far. She’s _asa’ma’lin_ , even if she’s angry, even if she never wants to see me again.”

               “It means sister,” Merrill says, softly, and Fenris turns to look at her. Her eyes are wide but the set of her jaw is firm. “He calls her sister.”

                “He’s a demon, Merrill,” Anders says. “How do we know that means anything?”

                “Spirit,” Merrill corrects. “Not all spirits are awful. You should know that better than anyone, Anders.”

                The abomination tenses and opens his mouth to argue, but Merrill ignores him.

“He said he’s Compassion, didn’t he? Then he wants to help. We should let him.”

                “We don’t really have a choice,” Isabela says, resting her hand on Merrill’s shoulder. “Right?”

                Fenris meets Merrill’s gaze for a long moment—and when she does not waver, not even under his glare, he turns back to the demon. “How do we get down?” he asks.

                The demon— _spirit_?—raises one arm and points to the hallway behind them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ven tu vir - sentence fragment, "another way."  
> asa'ma'lin - Sister. From Project Elvhen.  
> \--
> 
> The next few chapters are shorter, mostly because that was really the only way to make them flow properly? 
> 
> Also if anyone has any super cool theories/guesses about Aevalle's ~secret past~ I would love to hear them! I will neither confirm nor deny anything however. ;)


	24. I Can't Endure

In her dream, Hawke says “I don’t like this,” but the voice that comes out of her mouth isn’t her own. The accent is Dalish, and although the sound is somewhat familiar her mind is in too much of a haze to place it.

                “It will be fine, _Lethallan_ ,” someone near her says. “We’ll just get Una and get out again. The _shemlen_ won’t even see us.”

                Her surroundings are hazy—at one point she sits on a fence overlooking an old dirt road, watching an old, old truck drive by, one of those classic ones with wood rails on the bed, and the halla bleat as they dart out of its way. Then she’s crammed into an overcrowded wooden wagon in the stifling heat of a late summer night, and then she’s walking through a forest, her feet and legs wrapped in soft leather, toes bared, a yew bow hanging loosely in her hands.

                “Something’s not right about this place, Emren,” she says in someone else’s voice again, and she’s standing in an ancient temple, peering at the stars through a hole in the ceiling, the smell of damp and mould in the air.

                “Stay with me, Lavellan,” her father’s voice says. He sounds like he did when nine year old Marian lost control of her fire; his words are forced calm, his tone frantic around the edges. “We’re almost through.”

                She feels herself jerk—a convulsion of her whole body—and she doesn’t scream, _can’t scream they’ll find me_ , and she’s tied to a steel table, reduced to screaming and begging but she can’t anymore, nothing will come out of her throat, and _fenedhis_ she can’t see what they’ve done to her hand but she can’t feel her fingers, can’t feel anything but the anchor burning in her veins as they keep digging deeper. They think it’s nestled in her hand and not in the most intimate part of her soul.

                They mutter to each other in Tevene. They bring a young elven boy to her and put a gun to his head.

                “Swear it by Mythal and no other,” she spits in a voice that isn’t completely wrecked by pain and suffering.

                _It’s out of order_ , Hawke manages to think, a single coherent thought that’s her own in this strange mess of dreaming.

                She’s not sure how or why but she survives the van rolling into the ditch and the fire that surrounds it after. She climbs back up onto the highway, clutching her ruined hand to her chest, and realises she’s the only one who has as the rain pelts down mercilessly on her flesh.

                A kind man’s voice. The smell of cedar and camp fires. “Can you keep a secret?”

                The sight of her hand in the bathroom light, the sight of bone and tendon and muscle and then she vomits in the toilet.

                Her father’s voice again. “Hey don’t give up on me now, not when we’re almost there. Talk to me Lavellan, tell me about—you got a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Pretty thing like you. Aw, shit, now I’ve made you cry...”

                She’s lying in a bed of flowers that are glowing, glowing, and she can’t move because the voices of the _Virabelasan_ are trying to tell her all at once a thousand stories, all slightly twisted echoes of one another, a cacophony, a thick buzz, screaming and shouting and she’s trying to understand all of them at once and it’s too much.

                “ _Da’sahlin_ ,” a man calls her, and strangely Hawke understands what it means. At first it’s a jab at her impatience, at her youth, her whole life the blink of an eye compared to his, but slowly it changes. _Little moment, a little piece of the present, letting go and living in the now, something young and precious and—_

                He says it again, and it’s different still, softer, against her lips, against her neck, and he’s pulling off her shirt as the flowers bloom around them, the hum of ancient voices slipping slowly away as his hands wander down, his gold eyes meeting hers and _sorrow doesn’t seem quite right anymore_ , because look, he’s smiling and braiding shining flowers into her hair.

                An elven woman on the floor, the dead body of a Tevinter man on the bed, still curling in pain. “She has seen us,” an elven man says, pale and narrow-eyed, as he yanks the woman by her hair. He’s speaking in elven but Hawke can understand every word of it. “She must die.”

                Her bow is drawn tight, her arrow pointed at his face. Then she hears a child cry out and she’s so startled her hands jerk, the arrow looses and it hits the man in the shoulder, pinning him to the wall.

                The kind man’s voice again. “ _Ir abelas_ , _da’len_. I did what I could, but there will be an awful scar.”

                She barely hears him. She can feel her fingertips again and it’s enough to make her weep.

                She cries after her mother leaves, but there’s a nice boy no one else can see. “Call me Cole,” he says. He follows her everywhere, and he tells her what the frogs are thinking when she catches them, he holds her hand when she feels lonely, he kisses her knee when she scrapes it and he smiles when she calls him _brother_. But the Keeper calls him a demon, so she keeps him a secret. No one else can see him anyway.

                All the same, he’s not much like Compassion when the First calls her a few things that mean little better than barefaced, thin blood. Cole is almost rage then, and she’s afraid of what that means.

                She steps into the dark, shimmering waters and hears nothing but the voices of something ancient, powerful, and she isn’t frightened any more—it’s warm and it’s _so old_ and it’s a piece of the past that’s been denied her, and when she drinks she feels whole.

                “Where is the Lavellan?” the shem demands. He’s got a gun to Una’s head and a green and sparking orb in the other and Hawke has to drop her bow— _useless thing_ —and she glances under her hood to see Emren removing his, slowly.

                “We’re all Lavellan,” Emren says, so gently. “Just—just put down your pistol and we can talk this through.”

                “It burns,” the shem says. “Took it from her in the ruin where she slept, but I’m lost now. Tell me where to find the Lavellan. He whispers, he won’t—please.”

                “Alright,” Emren says, “we believe you. We want to help you, just please let our friend go. She isn’t who you’re looking for.”

                “Take off your goddamn hood,” the shem says to Hawke.

                “Don’t,” Cole says, hovering over her shoulder. “ _Asa’ma’lin_ please, don’t.”

                “ _Lethallan_ ,” Emren says, slowly, “do as he says.”

                Hawke’s hands obey—dark copper, dirt under well-trimmed nails—and the man gasps.

                “Lavellan,” he says, dropping the frightened Dalish girl in his arms. “You’re awake.”

                There’s a scuffle—Emren goes for the gun, the man for Hawke, and Cole yells _don’t touch it_ but she grabs the orb because the strange man is thrusting it at her, and then everything burns.

 

Hawke wakes with a start and then a groan—and she’s actually awake, not dreaming. She’s not sure if she should feel so relieved when she looks around and she can barely see a thing. She fumbles around until she realises that her phone isn’t jammed into her bra anymore, and she curses.

                She calls a touch of flame to her hand—her mana much depleted after the long battle and then the barrier during the fall, she decides to conserve what she can. She can make out the lines of the dragon’s carcass, crushed by rubble, and she doesn’t have to raise the flame very high to see that overhead is completely caved in. She strains to hear someone, anything, but can only hear her own soft breathing.

                “Shit,” she says. “Aevalle?”

                Hawke hears a low, soft moan in the darkness.

                She finds her friend curled up under what’s left of the dragon’s wing, Her breathing is shallow but it’s there, and it looks like she took a blow to her head. Aevalle winces at the light of her flame and tries to move. She looks down as if she’s surprised that she can’t. As Hawke scrambles over the rubble to her the light of her flame illuminates a large slab of stone that’s completely trapped Aevalle’s legs, and the shine of blood leaking out from beneath her.

                “Does that look bad?” Aevalle asks, her voice distant.

                “Oh fuck,” Hawke says.

                Aevalle winces again and her arms collapse under her. Hawke catches her and lowers her head, gently, while she examines the head wound. “You know, I should really take Anders up on that offer he made for healing lessons. What happened to that?”

                Aevalle doesn’t answer, predictably. Hawke peers out into the darkness ahead of her—she thinks maybe there’s more room up ahead, but she can’t tell.

                “Oh right. I tried to fuck him in his patient room. And then called it off before we did anything.”

                She looks down at Aevalle. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is rough, uneven. “That’s a little too much information, Hawke.”

                “Don’t judge me,” she says, finding herself smiling a little. She goes to Aevalle’s legs and starts shoving at the rubble. “I was drunk and angry at Fenris. Which is how I got everyone into this mess, so we all know how great of an idea that was.”

                The rubble above them shifts dangerously, and Hawke freezes. Something seems to settle and nothing collapses on top of them, but Hawke decides to take a hint and stop messing with the giant slab of stone trapping Aevalle’s lower half.

                Because it’s what she does best, she keeps talking. “Or maybe my dad got us into this mess. That’s what your friend said, right? Guess we can’t blame you and Fenris for everything now.”

                Aevalle groans and Hawke winces. “Not that we blame you. Fenris said it wasn’t your fault. A... dream-walking apostate? Is that how he put it?”

                She thinks about her dream and the man with the orb, and she tilts her head to the side. _The Lavellan_ , he said.

                Aevalle tries to laugh, but it turns into a cough. “I guess I explained it really poorly, didn’t I.”

                “More like not at all, actually. Is your brain swelling?”

                “How would I know?” Aevalle murmurs.

                Hawke touches Aevalle’s forehead—her skin is cold and clammy to the touch. Hawke swears and calls more flame to her hands, letting it hover over Aevalle’s chest in an attempt to warm her.

                “I’d give you my jacket if I had one,” she says. She sits cross-legged and scoots until she can let Aevalle’s head rest in her lap. “As it stands I wasn’t really dressed to treat shock patients this evening, so this’ll have to do.”

                Aevalle tries to laugh—low and _so weak_ , it makes Hawke’s heart pound against her chest.

                “ _Ir abelas_ , Hawke,” she says. “For uh, earlier.”

                “Don’t mention it. Oh wait that means sorry, doesn’t it?”

                Aevalle laughs again, even weaker. “And ‘ _ma serennas_ , I guess.” She sighs, half a moan of pain. “Hawke?”

                “Yeah?”

                “If I don’t—”

                “Aevalle.”

                “Tell Fenris...”

                “I’m not having this fucking conversation.”

                Aevalle coughs. “Hawke, please. There’s someone named Abelas. He’ll—he’ll be there. Ask him to tell Fenris everything.”

                “No,” Hawke says, her hands shaking. “No, because the others are going to come find us and we’ll laugh about this over a couple beers at Varric’s place.”

                “ _Tel’suledin_ ,” she mumbles. “ _Ir abelas_ , Hawke, I am. I tried.”

                Hawke has a real moment of panic as Aevalle’s breathing seems to slow, grow weaker, and she blurts the first thing to come to mind. “You know, I think your mom came here. And my Dad was here, and they—helped each other or something? I mean it’s ridiculous. But—what was I hearing? And then that weird dream...”

                Aevalle doesn’t respond. Hawke looks down, heart racing, and Aevalle barely seems to be breathing.

                “The veil is thin here,” comes a voice from the shadows ahead of her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tel'suledin - (I) can't endure
> 
> \--
> 
> Would Solas say literally anything else by way of introduction? I think not.
> 
> Have I mentioned I love writing wacky out of order dream sequences? Because you may not have noticed yet but I totally do.


	25. It Helps Now

Hawke jerks in place—unable and unwilling to jump up with Aevalle’s head on her lap. She casts her flame higher as she slips out from under Aevalle, lowering her head to the ground and searching the darkness for the sudden voice.

                Standing on the ancient floor amid all the rubble is an elven man, bald, wearing a knit sweater and a pair of brown khakis. She guesses he’s in his early forties—it’s harder to tell with elves though, isn’t it. He’s got some sort of animal bone around his neck, but that’s all he has—no backpack, no flashlight, tools, anything. Hawke thinks that he looks absolutely ridiculous, standing in a collapsed tunnel with his arms crossed behind his back and looking down his nose at her. Like he’s in an art gallery or something.

                “You blundered your way through a partial tear during your fall down here. In so doing you were exposed to the memories of the people who once battled here.”

                “Who the fuck are you?” she asks, narrowing her eyes with suspicion.

                “I am a healer, and I am not here to hurt you. Isn’t that enough? Or are you inclined to wait until someone more agreeable shows up to assist you?”

                There’s something very familiar about his voice—if not his tone. He sounds like an ass. Urgent, but still an ass.

                “Yeah, in my experience friendly apostates don’t just wander around in the basement of decrepit buildings waiting to help people out. Sounds a little too much like one of Carver’s videogames to me.”

                “You are correct in that assumption.”

                Hawke stares at him for a long moment, scowling. “Uh—yeah, I guess I am. So what are you here for?”

                “To help her.”

                Hawke almost growls in frustration. “As much as I enjoy chatting with strangers over the perfume of dragon carcass, you have to give me a little more explanation than that.”

                “I do not,” he says, and something in his eyes begins to glow. “She will quickly bleed to death at this rate. If you want your friend to live, I suggest you allow me to render assistance.”

                She remembers his voice. _Can you keep a secret_? She draws in a quick breath. “You’re that dreamwalker,” she says. She can feel her own sweat trickling down her spine, her flames are burning so bright.

                The man’s expression twists.

                Hawke blinks and she’s flat on her ass, back in the rubble. She struggles—tries to draw on mana to fight it, fight him, but the invisible hold on her is suffocating and she has to struggle just to breathe. She chokes and wheezes, and just when the thinks she’s about to pass out the pressure lightens a little. She gulps down mouthfuls of air, panting, raising her head enough so she can see the strange elf stand beside Aevalle, veilfire in the air beside him.

                The man raises his arms and the rubble that surrounds her is lifted, parted, then placed harmlessly aside. Then he kneels next to Aevalle, frowning down at her legs, gleaming and slick in the green-blue light of the veilfire.

                His expression is unreadable as he brushes Aevalle’s hair from her face. He touches the piercings on her eyebrow, the shaved half of her head, and tuts, softly.

                “Don’t—don’t you touch her!” She struggles but her limbs are held down by the invisible, overpowering weight of his mana. “You’ll regret it!”

                He ignores her. “ _Da’assan_ ,” he says instead, softly, his features falling—sorrow? Regret? Hawke can’t really pinpoint it, but mostly she’s just offended that he seems to have completely forgotten about her.

                His hands begin to glow with the light of healing magic—Hawke winces at how bright it is. He passes his hands over her face, down her arms, down her legs. It’s intimate, watching him work, and Hawke isn’t sure if she should be looking—there’s tenderness in his expression, but nothing to indicate anything bordering on the obscene. He frowns at the scars on her arms—a couple from hot sugar drips, one from the top of a deck oven back in breads class. One from that fight in Darktown, all those months ago, from deflecting that knife.

                Hawke lies there, forgetting to struggle as she watches him. The hum of his magic fills the air as he works on Aevalle’s crushed legs, and Hawke watches as the colour slowly returns to Aevalle’s cheeks and her chest begins to rise and fall with a gentle, healthy rhythm.

                He takes her left hand in his and pulls her glove off to look at the scar there. Twisted, angry, so big it practically takes up her whole palm—in her mind Hawke sees it like it was in her dream, opened down to the bones. Her stomach turns.

                Just like that, Aevalle jerks awake, and the stranger drops her hand.

                Aevalle scrambles away from him, and she curses at him in elven—her eyes are wide with panic, and when she stands it’s in a fighting stance, her hands brought up in front of herself.

                He says nothing as he stands, his expression pained as he watches her.

                “Why are you here, _harellan_?” she hisses.

                “ _Da’assan_ ,” he says.

                “Don’t call me that!”

                He crosses his arms behind his back and schools his expression until it is neutral. “Would you like to listen to the answer or would you like to fling insults at me instead?”

                “Don’t bother. You never told the truth anyway.”

                “I never lied to you.”

                She curses at him.

                He sighs, as if he is speaking to a petulant child. “I see you’re still clinging to stories meant to frighten children. Are all the piercings and that ridiculous hair to compensate for being terrified of the monster under your bed, _da’len_?”

                “Says the one wearing a wolf’s jaw bone and crying about being misunderstood. Did you explain the big joke to Mythal as you drained her dry?”

                His face twists into a snarl. “You may thank me any time for freeing you of her _geass_ , _da’len_ , though I will not hold my breath. You have certainly been ready enough to run head first into danger without her encouragement.”

                “I’ll relay your apologies when I return for judgement, _hahren_.”

                Something in his expression shifts—as if he can’t decide to feel panic, worry or rage at what she says. “ _Da’assan_ ,” he says, “you can’t.”

                “You lost the right to call me that,” she spits out, vitriol and rawness in her voice. “You lost the right to tell me what I can and can’t do.”

                He says nothing. For a moment, Hawke thinks he looks—hurt? Sad?

                “Try and take the anchor, Fen’harel. I won’t let you.”

                Hawke hears footsteps, and she tries to twist to see—there’s light coming through the hallway nearby, and it’s not the green-blue of veilfire or the red of flames.

                Fenris rounds the corner, lyrium alight in his skin, and he stops when he sees the strange elf standing with Aevalle. When he sees Hawke, prone on the rubble behind them, his expression twists into rage. Hawke’s heart hammers in her chest.

                “You’re Solas,” Fenris says. It’s not a question.

                There’s shouting coming from the hallway behind Fenris—Merrill, calling for Fenris to slow down, veilfire shining on the old stone walls.

                The strange elf’s eyes flick all along Fenris, along the lyrium lines in his skin. Some understanding seems to dawn on his features, and he turns to look at Aevalle with a single raised eyebrow.

                She meets his gaze, unflinching.

                “We are leaving, _da’len_ ,” he says with finality.

                Fenris snarls and launches himself at Solas’ back.

                Aevalle has time to yell, “ _Lethallin_ , no!”

                Solas doesn’t even turn—a barrier snaps into place around him, thick and the same green as the Fade, and Fenris’ sword raised over his head deflects off it, uselessly. He turns a halting step backwards into a rebound, dropping one hand from his sword and shoving a lyrium-burning fist directly into the barrier.

                The barrier snaps and hisses at the contact, flaring white at the point where Fenris’ fist burns.

                Aevalle yells, wordless and frantic.

                Fenris hits the barrier again and it breaks with a burst of white-green light. Hawke closes her eyes and jerks—able to move finally, to shield her face with her arm. She scrambles to her feet as the light starts to fade.

                Merrill yells something else—something in elven, something like a prayer or a curse, and Hawke lowers her arm.

                Solas is nowhere to be seen—in his place is a giant white wolf.

                Fenris has his sword in either hand, one on the hilt and one against the flat of the blade, and the wolf has the blade in his jaws. Fenris’ lyrium burns as they wrestle for it, briefly, just before the wolf shoves forward and releases it. Fenris goes flying backwards, his feet skidding on the floor as he regains his footing.

                He charges back in with a low swipe of the blade and the wolf dances away, snarling. Fenris follows, driving the sword forward, and the wolf takes it in his teeth. With a great turn of his head he manages to rip if from Fenris’ grasp this time, and it clatters to the floor somewhere.

                Fenris launches at the wolf again, and the wolf barrels into him, knocking him back with his head and chest. Hawke charges in at the wolf’s flank, fire burning in her hands, and just as she shifts back on one foot to jump for a kick to his side the wolf whirls on her—one hind leg lands square in her chest and Hawke falls back, cursing.

                Then there’s Cassandra, yelling, and the wolf is a blur as his jaws clamp onto the top of her shield. Her grip on it is severe enough that he yanks her with it, bodily, to the floor. Next is Bull, swinging his two handed maul over his head. The wolf darts to one side, his movements too quick to follow, and Bull’s weapon connects with the floor before the wolf shoves one great shoulder into Bull’s chest, sending him stumbling back over chunks of rubble. Carver’s in next but he’s sent flying just as easily with the swipe of a front paw.

                There’s lightning from Dorian as Hawke stands, Isabela yelling as she jumps between the wolf and Merrill, ancient roots sprouting up from the floor, trying to curl around the wolf’s nimble feet. Nothing connects—the wolf moves too fast, barrels through their best attacks. They’re all still exhausted from the fight with the dragon, and it shows in the heaviness of their limbs as they try and fail to keep up.

                Fenris fights like a demon—whenever the wolf turns Fenris is at his flank. His fists never connect, but they come close. When everyone else has fallen back or been knocked aside, Fenris is there, the wolf’s great jaws snapping at his hands.

                Somewhere in the din of battle, Hawke can hear Cole yelling, and she notices that neither he or Aevalle join in.

                She turns and sees Aevalle where she stood before, frozen in place, her eyes wide with terror. Her mouth is just slightly open, as if she’s trying to say something. Her hands are clenched in fists at her side, shaking.

                The wolf snarls— _in pain_ , Hawke thinks incredulously—and she turns back to see Fenris has landed a hit to the wolf’s jaw, and the monster actually stumbles back a step, mouth curling, teeth bared.

                Fenris launches himself forward, fist raised, and the wolf turns, moving with Fenris, landing a single kick on Fenris’ back and sending him sprawling on the floor in front of Aevalle.

                The wolf rounds on him, teeth bared, and Aevalle throws herself on top of Fenris with a yell.

                “ _Abelas_ ,” she cries, and the wolf freezes in place. “ _Ir abelas hahren. Ar ghilas irassal na nuvenin. Tel halam ma falon.”_

                There’s a moment that seems to go on forever—Hawke thinks, _this would be a good time to attack or something_ but no one moves, no one even breathes. Then she blinks and there’s something shimmering in the air, something that makes her hair stand on end, and the unassuming elf is in the wolf’s place, crouching next to Aevalle.

                She looks up at him. Her expression is one of absolute terror.

                His face twists up—in pain, in sorrow, Hawke doesn’t really know. He reaches for her, and with a gentle touch he cups her cheek in one palm, his eyes searching her face for something.

                She flinches.

                “ _Da’assan_ ,” he says, so softly. “ _Na ama ir harel.”_

                Aevalle doesn’t even breathe.

                “I did not come to take it from you.” His expression is honest, raw. “I did not come to steal you away. _Ar nuvenin na seth ama_.”

                His gaze falls. His hand drops from her face.

                “After all this time—I would never hurt you. Not for anything. Please understand that.”

                Aevalle doesn’t respond. Her eyes narrow—suspicious, confused—and she remains frozen in place.

                Solas stands and turns. He sees Cole, standing at the far end of the room, and Hawke thinks something unspoken must pass between them because Cole ducks his head in something like a nod, something like assent.

                Then there is a rush of frost magic— _a fade step—_ and the strange elf is gone.

                Aevalle clambers off Fenris, her expression blank. Fenris pulls himself up until he’s sitting, grabbing Aevalle by the shoulders, _hard_.

                “Aevalle,” he says. “Aevalle!”

                She blinks, startled. “ _Lethallin_ ,” she says, and her hand moves to one shoulder to clasp his as she meets his gaze, slightly dazed.

                “What the fuck was that?” Carver asks, and Aevalle ducks her head, the moment gone. Fenris gives her shoulder one reassuring squeeze before he helps her stand—and then Merrill is embracing her, shaking, babbling in elven. Aevalle laughs sheepishly and tries to reassure Merrill even as Isabela approaches them, even as she takes Aevalle’s hair in her hands and tries to work the tangles out with trembling fingers.

                Hawke watches them for a little while, smiling, until Carver punches her in the arm.

                “Ow!” She rubs her arm. “What was that for?”

                “For almost dying,” he says. He’s trying to sound sullen but he’s smirking.

                Bull throws an arm over Carver’s shoulders and drags him away to compliment him on jumping in like that, and Hawke watches them go, smiling.

                She can feel Fenris over her shoulder—smells his sweat and the citrus of the lyrium that goes with it, hears his breathing.

                “You frightened me,” he says, softly.

                Hawke turns. He’s not quite looking at her, just sending little glances up at her, keeping his gaze down.

                “Me?” Hawke asks, startled.

                “I...” He glances at Aevalle, still wrapped in Merrill’s embrace. “Thank you, Hawke. For protecting her.”

                Something warm flutters in her chest as he turns his gaze back to her again. His green eyes hold hers for a long, _long_ moment.

                “You know me,” she says. Normally she’d be laughing as she says it, but he’s standing very close and his eyes are so _very_ green. Her voice feels very low and soft but she can’t stop talking. “Always doing something stupid for my friends. Like falling into pits, fighting dragons, tevinter blood mages...”

                “ _So green_ ,” says a soft voice over her shoulder. “So bright and they didn’t waver when his lips wandered down... How did I ever live without him looking at me like that? What wouldn’t I do to keep them here?"

                Hawke’s cheeks have never felt so hot in her life. She inhales, sharply, and Fenris breaks her gaze to scowl at Cole, standing beside her. It’s hard to see in the veilfire light but there’s a flush on his tawny cheeks, and something warm at the corner of his mouth, in the narrowing of his eyes.

                “It’s not hot in here,” Cole says before Fenris can speak. “It’s not just you.”

                “There is no need to read anyone’s mind, demon,” Fenris says.

                Cole blinks. “Oh,” he says. “But you’re both so loud. Why don’t you just say what you’re thinking? She’d like that.”

                Fenris looks so startled, and the lyrium in his skin lights up, so briefly.

                “She’d like that too,” Cole says.

                “Cole,” Aevalle calls, chiding, and the strange boy is at her side in the blink of an eye.

                Hawke swallows, her mouth feeling very dry. Fenris does not meet her gaze—instead he scowls after Aevalle, finally released from Merrill’s death grip.

                “I didn't know he followed me,” Cole says, wringing his hands. “He made me forget. You're angry.”

                Aevalle hushes him. “ _Isa’ma’lin_ ,” she says, “I don't blame you. You were helpful.”

                Cole hesitates, and Hawke doesn't know why but she's holding her breath. Then he reaches out, and Aevalle takes his hand. He gathers her into an embrace and pets her hair, softly, humming an off tune song. Hawke doesn’t recognise it—strangely, she was expecting that weirdly familiar one that Aevalle hums all the time. She’s not sure why.

                “Cole,” Aevalle says.

                “This helped when you skinned your knee.”

                “I was nine, Cole.”

                “It helps now,” he adds, sounding pleased as he releases her.

                Fenris is still at her side, and Hawke inclines her head to glance at him with a smirk. “You sick of following me into all this bullshit yet, Fenris?”

                He meets her gaze with a small, secret smile.

                “I enjoy following you,” he says, and there’s something warm in his voice—she wants to close her eyes and savour the sound of it, or do something very stupid right here in front of everyone.

                Just as he turns away, she says, “I’ll wait.”

                He freezes in place, but does not look back at her.

                “Until you tell me to stop. Until you figure... everything out. I’ll wait for you.”

                He looks down. “Hawke,” he says.

                She bites her lip.

                Then he smiles, and she can see only the profile of it, his hair falling in front of his face to obscure his eyes but not that perfect, shy smile. “You... might be waiting a long time.”

                “That’s alright,” she says, surprising herself by meaning it. “I don’t mind.”

                His only response is a half-laugh, and when he raises his gaze again the lines of his face have softened. He lingers by her side with his smile, secret, quiet, and they watch their friends laugh off their battles together, their hands close but not quite touching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Da'assan - Little arrow. Common pet name for young hunters.  
> Harellan - Traitor/Trickster.  
> Abelas, ir abelas hahren. Ar ghilas irassal na nuvenin. Tel halam ma falon. - Sorry, I’m so sorry. I go wherever you wish. Don’t hurt (end) my friend.  
> Na ama ir harel. - You have such a fright. Merrill also says this to Aevalle in chapter 5, when she's refusing to sleep.  
> Ar nuvenin na seth ama. - I wish to keep you safe.
> 
> \--
> 
> Hey are you guys stoked it's not another cliffhanger because I am.
> 
> I walked the stage and got my diploma on Friday! And then went and worked the two least glorious shifts I have ever worked in my life. Who just came back from 12 hours of boxing chocolates? This kid. I went to school for this shit.
> 
> Feel free to message me on tumblr at any time to talk about what's going on in this story if the comment system doesn't work for you! I might get a writing-centric tumblr because people I know IRL follow my main one and my baby sister really doesn't need to know I write smut. :o In the meantime send any questions or theories or whatever to [playwithdinos.tumblr.com](http://playwithdinos.tumblr.com/) OR just post in the comments here, I'm perfectly happy with either!


	26. New Message from Aveline Hendyr

_New Message from Aveline Hendyr_

-{ Varric if you don’t respond to this message I   
   swear I will manage to find a charge that sticks   
   this time

-{ I hear Kirkwall Penitentiary has terrible wifi

-{ Enjoy attending your merchants’ guild meetings   
    on dial up

                -{ Oh shit Aveline

                -{ I’m fine! Carver’s fine!

-{ I don’t care about you Varric

                -{ Wow rude

                -{ Aveline it’s Hawke

-{ What about Hawke?

-{ Why didn’t you start with that?

-{ Is she alright?

-{ Have they hurt her?

                -{ Maker Aveline

-{ Varric this better be one of your jokes

-{ I’ll still kill you anyway because it’s in poor taste

-{ But I’ll do it quicker if it’s a joke

                -{ No Aveline

                -{ I’M Hawke

                -{ I’m using Varric’s phone, mine broke in the fall

-{ What fall?

                -{ Fall? Did I say fall?

                -{ More like light stumble

-{ How far?

                -{ You know, no big deal

                -{ Kind of like average height from which to fall and   
                 come out totally fine

                -{ And not almost crushed to death by rubble

-{ Hawke

                -{ Down a twenty foot pit into the basement of an old   
                    building

-{ Maker’s breath

                -{ Like I said though no big deal, everyone’s fine

                -{ Especially Aevalle, Aevalle is especially fine

-{ Aevalle? That sweet girl with all the piercings?

                -{ Uh oh

-{ Hawke what happened

                -{ Literally nothing

-{ Do you mean literally as in literally or literally   
    as in figuratively

                -{ Figuratively nothing

-{ Hawke

                -{ She’s fine now!

                -{ She only got a little bit crushed by rubble

-{ Hawke!!!

-{ That’s it I’m calling paramedics

                -{ No it’s cool her probably abusive stalker apostate ex   
                    boyfriend patched her up

-{ Her what

                -{ Okay wow I need to stop hitting the send button so   
                    quickly

                -{ I actually don’t know if they ever dated or anything   
                   because she’s kind of allergic to sharing information   
                   in a way that I’m beginning to think is seriously   
                   detrimental to the well-being of the group

                -{ Mostly mine, considering I just got kidnapped and   
                    had to fight a dragon

                -{ But you know Fenris and I really connected afterwards  
                  so I’m thinking totally worth it?

-{ A dragon

                -{ Oh shit did I type dragon?

                -{ I meant like

                -{ A metaphorical dragon

-{ Hawke

                -{ Like it was a fight that wasn’t too difficult or strenuous  
                  to anyone involved

                -{ Merrill 100% did not break a leg

                -{ Like that did not happen at all

-{ Hawke how did you fight a dragon

-{ Dragons are extinct

                -{ You know Dorian’s been rambling about that more   
                   or less nonstop for like an hour now

                -{ Shit this place is huge

-{ Also Varric said a Templar used a smite on you

                -{ Oh yeah

                -{ That’s a thing that happened

                -{ This has been a seriously long night

-{ How did you escape? Did Varric and the others   
    find you?

                -{ No Aevalle’s weird friend did

                -{ Like really weird

                -{ Like spin a guy’s head around on his neck weird

-{ What

                -{ You know what let’s go back to talking about that smite

                -{ Had no fun 0/10 would not recommend

-{ How are you still coherent?

                -{ Honestly coherent doesn’t really cover it

                -{ He gave me really old lyrium and I’m kind of tripping out

-{ Who did?

                -{ Aevalle’s weird friend that we’re not talking about

                -{ Actually a very nice kid

-{ Maker, Hawke

-{ Why did you drink that?

                -{ Seemed like a good idea at the time

-{ Hawke

                -{ I mean I think I smelled colours for a whole five minutes

                -{ But then I just lit a bunch of shit on fire and we’re good

                -{ Honestly I thought for a whole ten seconds after   
                 Aevalle’s weird mystery apostate turned into a giant   
                 wolf that I was hallucinating the whole thing

-{ A giant wolf

                -{ Like the size of a car giant wolf

                -{ You know I thought Aevalle was speaking metaphorically  
                  when she said the Dread Wolf was coming for her

                -{ Apparently she uses the word “literally” for its actual  
                  dictionary definition

-{ How very strange

                -{ I know right?

                -{ Who does that

                -{ Old people that’s who

                -{ But anyway we got our asses kicked by a giant furry   
                  monster and then he and Aevalle had a nice chat   
                  while being insufferably vague and he vanished into   
                  thin air

                -{ Is that an elf thing?

-{ Hawke I have half the police force combing the  
    city for you

-{ And you’re asking me about elves vanishing

-{ Apostate elves vanishing

-{ I’m going to have to purge my phone again   
    aren’t I?

                -{ Aww Aveline you do care

-{ Against my better judgement

-{ I’ll call off the search I suppose

-{ Donnic will want to know you’re both alright

-{ I’ll send him to you, if you need a ride home

                -{ Thanks Aveline

                -{ You’re the best

-{ He’s taking you straight home

-{ Where I will be waiting for you

-{ And we’re going to have a conversation about   
    everything you’ve just told me

                -{ ... Shit

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We haven't had nearly enough Aveline in this fic. Mostly because I don't think Aveline would be up for these shenanigans...
> 
> [Anyway I just spent all day making a writing tumblr and sticking literally every chapter of Whetstone up on it.](http://dinoswrites.tumblr.com/) I may regret this decision later. BUT if you want to follow it, I'll be posting updates here and there. Also now that it's set up, feel free to send me prompts! They can be related to this story if you want but they don't have to. I can't promise I'll get to them but I'd like to vary what I'm writing a little bit, so it'd be a big help.


	27. Just For Tonight

Aevalle wakes to a gentle touch on her forehead. Even jumped full of pain mediation and the lulling hum of Anders’ lingering healing magic she recognises the callouses immediately, and she sighs as she opens her eyes.

                “ _Nadas’lin_ ,” she murmurs as his weight settles on the bed beside her.

                She tries to get up and he hushes her. When he says, “ _Da’sahlin_ ,” it’s a plea, a whispered request. She hums and allows him to run his fingers over her scalp, up through her hair, down along her face and to cup her cheek in his palm.

                “ _Dirtha ma_ ,” he whispers.

                His voice is so gentle. She doesn’t want him to stop touching her ever again.

                “They broke the first seal,” she tells him. To her own ears her voice sounds distant, worn and tired. “I tried to stop them.”

                His laugh is low, soft, only a little chiding. “Any of the others would have killed the Hawkes to prevent this.”

                “I know.”

                He takes her left hand in his and turns it over so it’s palm up. He pulls off her glove and the anchor sparks, bright and dazzling green, and his fingers run all over her hand as he examines it, the thick and knotted scars on her flesh there. His touch feather-light, so gentle she can barely feel it.

                She remembers that he has not scrutinized it so closely in—how long, exactly? Since she left. Before the scar. She does not pull her hand away.

                “The dragon is dead.”

                There’s a question behind his words, a single eyebrow raised.

                “You would not believe what the _shemlen_ are capable of,” she tells him. She tries to adopt his tone of voice, some of his haughtiness when they first met, but her smile falters. “She was incredibly weak.”

                He scoffs. “With the state her master is in, it is no surprise.”

                She does not respond. He sighs.

                “He came for me,” she says at length.

                Abelas tenses. His thumb pauses over the thickest knot of her scar, and she glances up at him to see his gaze sharp, focused.

                “You cannot tell me your friends won that battle.”

                “No,” she says. Her fingers curl, brushing against his until they are entwined. “He—he didn’t take it. Why not?”

                He runs a hand through her hair again. “I don’t know,” he whispers.

                “I thought—he said he killed Mythal to free me.” She grips his hand, tighter. “Is he lying?”

                “I don’t know,” he says. He sighs. “ _Ir abelas, Da’sahlin._ ”

                She used to regret that first night he found her, when she told him everything in a drunken rage. Now, she is only relieved to hear the words, to feel his hands tighten over hers.

                There’s a cry building in her chest, and she can’t bite it back any longer. “Stay with me,” she whispers. “Please. Just for tonight.”

                She’s not sure what she expects, but he leans down and kisses her forehead—and she’s so certain he will leave. But then he kisses the corner of her eye, and she realises that she’s crying, and a sob bubbles up from somewhere deep in her chest. She reaches for him and he climbs into the bed with her, gathering her up in his arms and holding her as she tangles her fingers in his long braid. Before long she is kissing him, her hands pulling at the hem of his shirt, and he whispers _Da’sahlin_ so softly as he draws his fingers down towards her hips, rolls back his head and allows her to mark his neck in her sorrow, her drive to forget.

 

Hawke jolts out of her sleep, her mouth moving to cry but no sound coming out.

                She freezes in place for a long, frantic moment before she smells—lyrium, sweat, citrus. _Fenris_. It takes her precious seconds longer to realize that she's in his bed, tangled in his sheets.

                Right. Hiding from Aveline, like an adult. Hawke runs her hand through her hair and it comes away sticky with her own sweat, little specks of dried blood and black grime.

                She darts out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, wincing at the slapping of her bare feet on the floor. She stands in front of the mirror and scrubs her face with cold, cold water. She leans on the counter and peers up at her reflection. There are dark circles under her grey eyes and she is pale, her expression drawn. She looks like shit. She cracks a smile –that’s a little better. A little more like a Hawke.

                She tries to remember the dream, but only flashes of it come to mind. A soft dress with a floral print. The smell of sinew, a feather from an arrow on her cheek as she draws it. She's shaking and she doesn't know why.

                She curses, softly to herself, and exits the washroom.

                Before the turns the light off, a pair of elven eyes reflect it in the dark.

                She blinks and her eyes adjust–Fenris, sitting cross legged on the floor, that stolen sword flat across his lap. His back pressed to the door to his apartment. Those wide, green eyes watching her, brow furrowed in concern.

                It's absolutely surreal. There's still dragon blood in his hair.

                “Fenris,” she says.

                “Hawke,” he says, and it's almost a question. “Are you alright?”

                “I...” She shakes herself. “I had a weird dream. Why are you sleeping on the floor?”

                He inclines his head toward the living room, and Hawke glances over - she can see Isabela and Merrill on the couch, limbs entwined.

                “Oh,” she says. She wavers in place.

                “Hawke,” Fenris says again.

                She doesn't respond. She's hearing her father’s voice again, low and gentle. _Call me Hawke, everyone does. What's your name? You know that's how it works, right? I give mine, you give yours, we’re fast friends forever..._

                “Marian,” Fenris says, standing, and she jolts out of the dream.

                She tries to laugh it off, but it dies in her throat as Fenris raises a hand and presses the back of it to her forehead.

                “You have a fever,” he says, softly.  He’s frowning and his eyes are darting over her face, as if he’s looking for something.

                He smells like sweat and blood. Hawke swallows. “Do I?”

                He smiles. She can't look away from his mouth.

                “I'll get you something,” he says, “and in the morning we’ll call your abomination if it's not down.”

                “Some people just go to the doctor,” she says.

                He drops his hand right as she tries to lean into it—too fast. She staggers and Fenris catches her shoulders before she falls.

                “Marian,” he says, so softly.

                “I just—” 

                She rests her forehead against his. She expects him to flinch away, she's ready for it, but he doesn't move.

                “What happened down there?” Fenris asks her.

                “You shouldn't sleep on the floor,” she says. “You'll get back pain and you'll have to take time off work like an old man—”

                “Marian.”

                “And then you'll get fired and you won't have enough money for school and—”

                His hand is on her cheek. “Marian,” he says, “you will wake the others.”

                She's decided she likes Fenris calling her Marian. She likes it very much.

                “All I'm saying,” she says, “is that there's a perfectly good bed right in there. I don't mind sharing.”

                He draws his thumb along her cheekbone as he looks into her eyes, and she never wants him to stop either of those things.

                “Nothing funny,” she says, softly. “Just two consenting adults having a cuddle.”

                Oh, that laugh. Low and soft and warm and so rare that it belongs in a goddamn museum. Or in a bedroom. Or anywhere other than standing in plain sight of their sleeping friends.

                Is she pushing? Is this too fast? She said she’d wait, but there’s something about that half-remembered dream that’s shaking her, and there’s something about Fenris that’s grounding her _here_ , in her own flesh.

                “Get some sleep, Hawke,” he says, slowly, and he starts to pull away.

                She grabs his shirt. “Please,” she whispers.

                Fenris doesn’t say anything, and Hawke can’t bear to look at his face. She closes her eyes and presses her forehead against his, firmly, making fists with her shirt in his hands. She stays like that until she wavers, and then she feels Fenris’ hand on hers. Gentle, supporting, and she’s sure he’s about to pry her hand off his chest.

 _I am pushing_ , she thinks, feeling heat on her cheeks, and she jerks away from him. “I’m sorry,” she says, her throat tight. “I—fuck.”

                She gives up on words and retreats into his room again— _Fenris’ goddamn bed_ —and she stops in front of the mattress on the floor, staring down at the tousled sheets. The last time she was here she’d pinned him to the mattress, trailing kisses down his lyrium markings after he’d confessed his darkest secret to her. She runs her hands through her hair and tries to think, but of course it’s too late for that— _how stupid can she be?_

                “Hey Fenris,” she mutters under her breath, “I know we have a really complicated history and you’ve got shit to sort through but can I just steal your bed for a night while I hide from being yelled at by my second mom? You can just sit on the floor like a guard dog I guess, it’s not like this is your place or anything and he probably used to make you do that _aren’t I just so fucking sensitive_.”

                She hasn’t closed the door, and she’s aware of the sound of breathing behind her. She turns and Fenris is leaning against the door frame, that ridiculous sword hanging loosely in his hand. His face forced into a mask, his eyes burning with—something not unlike rage.

                He says nothing. She stares at him.

                “Get some sleep, Hawke,” he says, his voice thick, and he closes the door, leaving her in the room alone.

 

When the morning drags into the afternoon and Aevalle still isn’t awake, Fenris open the door of her room to check on her and there is someone in the bed with her.

                His first instinct is to charge in there, but he notices the way her limbs are tangled around his—desparate, clutching him close in sleep—and he freezes in place, the plate of food he’s scrounged up from the fridge in his hand.

                Unable to do anything at all, he stares, and the stranger in the bed with Aevalle stirs. A pair of gleaming golden eyes peer out from the mess of Aevalle’s hair, green _vallaslin_ winding up pale limbs, a long mess of very pale hair.

                Bizarrely, Fenris wonders if he should text Varric again.

                The strange elf bows his head to kiss Aevalle’s forehead and she stirs, murmuring in elven.

                Fenris deposits the plate on Aevalle’s desk and leaves the room, at a complete loss for anything he’s actually supposed to do.

                He paces in the kitchen for a moment—Isabela and Merrill still snoring on the couch—and he stops to fiddle with the other plates he’s piled with food scraps and leftovers. He listens and he hears the strange man speaking to Aevalle—he can only hear the murmur of his voice, not the words, and Aevalle’s soft replies.

                He takes one plate and goes into his bedroom, opening the door without knocking. Hawke is asleep half on his bed and half off—and Fenris remembers the night before and stops for a moment, staring, his hand still clenched on the doorknob.

                He hears a soft laugh from the room next to him— _Aevalle’s_ —and he swallows his guilt and kneels down next to Hawke, putting the plate on the bed beside her. He shakes her shoulder, gently.

                Hawke jerks awake and sputters some gibberish Fenris doesn’t quite catch.

                “Shit,” she says, rolling over. “What time is it?”

                “There’s someone in Aevalle’s room.”

                She blinks sleepily at him. “Aevalle?”

                Fenris scowls. “A man.”

                It takes Hawke a moment, but her eyes shoot wide open. “Her secret boyfriend?”

                “So,” comes a strange voice from the doorway.

                Fenris turns and stands in the same motion, and the unknown elf is standing in the doorway, contemplating the orange Fenris left on Aevalle’s plate.

                “You must be Fenris.”

                He can’t place the man’s accent—perhaps some southern Dalish clan? He’s only wearing a faded pair of jeans, and the _vallaslin_ all over his body is far more elaborate than Aevalle’s. He is broader of shoulder than most elves, and he appears fit. The scars scattered across his skin are from sharp weapons and one along his stomach seems to be from a set of claws, although from what creature Fenris cannot guess. His hair has been pulled back from his face, revealing the undercut that exposes the _vallaslin_ curling up his scalp. Bull was right, he is certainly older than Aevalle, but there is nothing about his features that marks his age—there’s something almost otherworldly about him, something that isn’t quite right, but Fenris can’t quite place it.

                His gold eyes flick to Hawke, scrambling to her feet behind Fenris. “And you are one of the Hawke children.”

                “Who are you?” Fenris demands.

                He inclines his head slightly as he meets Fenris’ accusing gaze with a small smirk. “I am called Abelas,” he says, “although I suppose that does not answer your question.”

                Fenris glances at Hawke. There’s something peculiar in her expression, but he doesn’t know what that means.

                “What do you want?” he asks instead, focusing his gaze on Abelas.

                “To gauge for myself what is worth risking her life for,” Abelas says, shifting to lean against the doorframe. He uses his thumb to break the skin of the orange and he peels it with deft, precise movements. “To see what is worth going against the will of Mythal. So far I am unimpressed.”

                Hawke blurts, “Her judgement—”

                Abelas’ sharp eyes snap up, and Hawke is silent.

                “She would have been better off having Compassion kill you and your brother,” he says. “I or any of the others would have done it without hesitation. Instead, you foolish _shemlen_ have barrelled ahead into a danger you do not understand.”

                Fenris shifts so he stands between Abelas and Hawke. The movement is subtle, but the strange elf’s eyes narrow at the sight of it and he laughs.

                “The danger has passed. Besides, she would be displeased if I killed you now.”

                “You could try.” Fenris’ words come out almost in a snarl, and he clenches his fists. _Like a guard dog_. He tries to ignore the memory of Hawke’s muttered words, but they twist in his gut.

                Abelas blinks, slowly. His eyes dart up and down Fenris, following the lines visible on his arms and neck.

                “An interesting thought. Perhaps one day I should like to see what became of a shem’s bumbling attempts to imitate _Elvhenan’s_ greatest living weapons.” Something not unlike a smile and a grimace passes over his face. “When you are older, perhaps.”

                He finishes peeling the orange. He eats a single slice as they stand there, staring at him.

                “How do you know Aevalle?” Hawke asks, slowly.

                He glances up at Hawke with narrow eyes, as if he’s studying her. “I met her when she came to the temple I serve in, searching for answers regarding the mark on her hand. Which she received in abundance. She stayed with my people and worked with us for some time."

                He pauses to eat another orange section. He glances at Fenris with some significance, but his motives are unclear. Is he gauging their reaction, or trying to guess what they already know?

                “Then I sent her on a mission to Tevinter, and she failed. That is when the Venatori captured her and discovered the Anchor’s unique properties.”

                “And when does her dream-walking apostate come into this?” Hawke asks.

                Abelas inclines his head. “You’ve met him.”

                “He was sort of a dick.”

                That makes Abelas smile, dryly. “If you only knew, _shemlen_.”

                They don’t know how to respond to that, and Abelas offers nothing more. Fenris turns his scrutiny to the bruises forming on Abelas’ neck, drawing down to his collarbone, and the red lines from fingernails on his shoulders. Abelas shows no hint of shame under Fenris’ narrowed gaze as he continues eating the orange.

                “What exactly happened down there?” Hawke asks. “What was my dad involved in?”

                “The seal on a corrupted high dragon was failing, and he used blood magic to reinforce it.” Abelas pauses to eat an orange slice, his gaze low. “Suffice to say, the seal has failed, and the Dread Wolf is one step closer to accomplishing his goal.”

                “The Dread Wolf,” Fenris echoes. “A Dalish myth.”

                “A man,” Abelas corrects. “A desperate and dangerous one. Call him a dream walking apostate or a myth all you like, he is much more than even the Dalish paint him in their folk tales. And now, thanks to your bumbling efforts, he is closer than ever to success.”

                “You mean Aevalle’s mark,” Fenris says. “Why didn’t he kill her for it?”

                That seems to give Abelas pause. His eyes narrow, just slightly, and he seems to be looking past them for a moment instead of at them.

                “I do not know,” he answers, the derision gone from his voice for just a moment.

                Abelas actually smiles a little—he tosses a long look over his shoulder to Aevalle’s open doorway. “Ask her why she failed her mission,” he says, “and you will have your answer.”

                The sound of stirring comes from Aevalle’s room, and Abelas slips away. Fenris hesitates before following, peering around Aevalle’s doorway without going in. Hawke is immediately behind him, standing on her toes to peer over his shoulder. A hearbeat later there’s the patter of bare feet on the floor, and a glance confirms that Isabela and Merrill are crammed into the doorway, wide-eyed and curious. Isabela is staring at Abelas’ ass with an appreciative smirk, and Merrill is smiling sweetly as she watches him and Aevalle.

                When Fenris looks back, Abelas has pulled a shirt over his head and he is slipping a jacket over his shoulders. He stoops over Aevalle’s bed and kisses her, slowly, as if they have all the time in the world.

                When they part, he rests his forehead against hers.

                “I must return to the temple,” he says, softly. “The others need to know what’s occurred here.”

                Aevalle is smirking. “Aren’t you supposed to drag me back in chains?”

                His laugh is low and soft. “I will make excuses once again. It would be easier without your marks on my neck."

                She’s still smirking. “Make excuses,” she tells him, and he kisses her again.

                When Abelas does turn, he stops and scowls at the group assembled in the doorway. Aevalle follows his gaze—and there’s a moment where she stares at all of them before the tips of her ears and her cheeks darken considerably, and she pulls her blankets up to her nose as she glares at them.

                “Not bad,” Isabela says, “not bad at all.”

                Abelas crosses his arms over his chest and his scowl deepens. Fenris blinks to be sure, but there’s a slight blush on his cheeks.

                “ _Andaran atishan_ ,” Merrill says, inclining her head. She’s doing her best to appear respectful, smoothing down her hair where it’s spiking up.

                He studies her for a long moment. Aevalle coughs and he sighs, uncrossing his arms. “ _Enaste sul mar arla_ , _da’len_ ,” he says, with some attempt at warmth.

                “Oh!” Merrill lets out a nervous giggle. “Well it’s not _my_ house. _Ma serannas, hahren_.”

                Abelas raises a brow again, and Merrill and Isabela slip away, allowing him to pass. He pauses next to Fenris, and their eyes meet, narrowed at one another.

                “I trust you will do a better job protecting her in the future,” Abelas says, and Fenris bristles.

                “ _Nadas’lin_ ,” Aevalle chides, exasperated.

                Abelas ignores her. “Try to keep her from doing anything too stupid,” he says, dryly. “She has no sense of self-preservation.”

                Fenris scowls, ignoring Hawke’s soft laughter behind him.

                Abelas leaves without ceremony, his feet wrapped in leather under his jeans, and no one says anything for a solid minute. Hawke is still at his back, not touching him, but when he looks at her she blushes and steps away, her gaze downcast.

                “So,” says Merrill, “who’s texting Varric and Dorian?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirtha ma - Tell me.  
> Enaste sul mar arla, da’len - Blessings upon your house. Formal response to "Andaran atishan." Project Elvhen.
> 
> -
> 
> In which Hawke says "I'll wait" and she lasts less than six hours. This kid needs help.


	28. I Was Handling It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some descriptions of police brutality ahead in this chapter (middle section). Stop reading after the train arrives and start up again at Hawke waking up if you wish to avoid it. Message me at [dinoswrites.tumblr.com](http://dinoswrites.tumblr.com/) for clarification/summary if you need.

“It’s all completely rotten,” Fenris says, crossing his arms and glowering at the truck driver. “Or it will be in two days. The whole pallet. Take it back.”

                He’s trying not to look completely nauseated by the smell coming out of the pallet of what was once white asparagus. Standing on the concrete receiving pad, it’s the height of summer and the air is hot enough to rival Minrathous. The light ocean breeze is blocked by the building, and Fenris can feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

The truck driver is some Fereldan expat, tall, broad-shouldered and more heavily tattooed than Fenris—which means that Fenris is always the one stuck dealing with him while the rest of the prep cooks hide behind the receiving doors.

                “What are you,” the man grumbles, crossing his arm to match Fenris’ pose, “the Iron Bitch’s watchdog?”

                Fenris’ lip curls in distaste.

                “Just cook it today,” the man says. “Or maybe fill the plates up a bit more. Not all of us are skinny little rabbits—then again, maybe if you ate more, all your ears would round out!”

                The man guffaws, and Fenris rolls his eyes. That insult is less grating than the other. Less personal history, even if accidentally referenced. But that’s the one that makes the murmurs start somewhere behind Fenris’ back.

                “Take the pallet back,” Fenris says, his voice level.

                The rest of the shipment is fine, but the Fereldan still curses and snarls and takes way too much time to load the offending pallet back into the truck. Fenris waits until he drives away before pulling out his phone and texting Vivienne, still scowling as he makes sure to use proper capitalization and punctuation.

                -{ The shipment was received but the white asparagus was completely rotten. I have sent it back.

                It takes only seconds for her to text him back. They’ve had a number of problem deliveries lately.

-{ Thank you darling.

-{ I will make the appropriate calls now. I’ll have a substitution within the hour.

                He tucks his phone away as the prep cooks slink out from hiding, looking bashful.

                “Good job handling him, Fen,” Nathaniel says. “I was just about to jump in and back you up there, but you took it like a champ.”

                “Fuck that,” Sigrun says, “he’s three times the size of us. Can’t believe you didn’t clock him one for that rabbit comment though.”

                Fenris grabs the nearby pallet jack. “This needs to get inside, before it spoils,” he says.

                He catches the significant look they give each other out of the corner of his eye, but they say nothing, moving to help him get the shipment into the walk ins.

                Fenris is returning the pallet jack to the storage room when Vivienne herself breezes into the kitchen, the head Chef trailing behind her and wringing his hands. She’s wearing loose summer clothing that flows with her every movement, a pin on one shoulder marking her as First Enchanter to the Orlesian circle.

                “I have a good deal of money invested in this particular evening, and I will be extremely cross if any further possible hiccups are not brought to my attention immediately,” she’s saying.

                “Of course,” the chef says, still wringing his hands. “Of course—it was a minor oversight.”

                “I should not have to hear about recurring problems with produce delivery from an intern.”

                The chef sees him then, and sends Fenris a warning glance. Fenris knows the look— _make yourself scarce_ —but he has nowhere to go, so he shrugs a little by way of apology and tries to look busy with a bin of lentils.

                “I—I was handling it.”

                “They would not give it to you if you were not accepting it in the first place,” she says. Her tone is level but there’s disgust churning underneath it, as if she can’t believe she has to explain what she’s saying. “And to top it all off, one of your prep cooks tells me that the delivery driver is making inappropriate comments to the elven staff.”

                The man looks very pale. “I—it was not brought to my attention.”

                “So you have had regular problem deliveries,” she says, standing up to her full height, her dark eyes narrowed, “and you haven’t been out to receive them yourself? Not on the night of our biggest corporate banquet of the year?”

                Fenris actually feels a little bad for the chef. His eyes are wide and Fenris can see sweat forming on his temples. “I—Fenris is more than capable of handling it.”

                Her eyes flick along the man’s face, taking note of the sweat, of his expression, of the way his shoulders tense as he attempts to curl away from her scrutiny. “Believe me,” she says, cooly, “that has been noted. If there are any further problems tonight I will hear about it—have I made myself clear?”

                The Chef can’t slink away fast enough.

                “I will be having several words with his references,” she says, and it takes Fenris only a second to realise her words are directed at him. “That’s the last time I will accept a recommendation from any of them.”

                Fenris doesn’t have anything enlightening to say, so he nods once, briefly.

                “Our chef at launch was much like you,” she continues, finally turning and examining Fenris. He can almost feel her gaze on him like a physical thing, calculating and cool. “Quiet. Kept her head down. Did her job, no questions asked. She ran a tight ship.”

                Vivienne links her hands behind her back and approaches Fenris, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor. “Tabris, her name was. Clever young girl. Very bright future ahead of her. I plucked her out of some trash heap pretending to be a restaurant, and she’s the one who put this place on the map. She moved back to Fereldan with her boyfriend when she found out she was pregnant—leaving me with a string of incompetent fools stumbling along in her shadow.”

                Fenris says nothing, still. Vivienne is watching his reaction, so he keeps his expression attentive but otherwise blank.

                “She’s opened four five star restaurants since, and now she owns the top restaurant in Denerim. She visits once a year and I send her daughter Satinalia and birthday gifts.” She sends Fenris one last, meaningful glance. “The truck driver has been fired,” she says.

                “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” Fenris says. A thank you might have been strangely inappropriate.

                There’s a small, delicate smile on Vivienne’s lips. “My dear,” she says, “take it from me. When you have the chance to make someone who’s slighted you suffer, whether on your own or through your connections, do not hesitate to take it. The world will take every inch you give it until you have nothing left.”

                She turns to go, and pauses. “You’ll be starting on the line on Monday,” she says. “I trust that is sufficient notice to make arrangements for altering your schedule?”

                He tries not to look shocked. “That—that will be sufficient,” he manages to say. “Thank you.”

                Perhaps her smile is genuine, or at least only partially affected.

                When the dessert course is being served and Fenris has just finished changing out of his whites, Nate and Sigrun beckon wildly until he follows them, until he’s crammed into an alcove, peering out into the dining room from behind a curtain, over Sigrun’s head.

                There are two spirits, barely more than wisps, chittering in little harmonic voices as they arrange perfectly formed spheres of sugar into floating shapes that whirl in the air like dancers, and those assembled at the table make the appropriate exclamations of delight.

                “It’s beautiful,” Sigrun says, so softly. “Do you think they’re friendly?”

                “When they’re not trying to possess people, sure,” whispers Nate. “Or light people on fire.”

                _Or reading your mind and blurting your secrets to the whole room_ , Fenris thinks, but doesn’t say. The blatant display of magic is making his skin crawl, and he can feel the lyrium humming as the veil shifts, another wisp of a spirit summoned through.

                He closes his eyes and it calms before anyone notices.

                He draws back to the doorway behind them. “I have to go,” he says.

                “You’re not going to watch?” Sigrun asks, but by the time she looks back, he’s gone.

                It’s a short walk from the restaurant to the train station, and the summer air is warm enough that Fenris doesn’t need the thin sweater he’s wearing, but he puts the hood up anyway, his white hair too conspicuous under every streetlight he passes. He walks with his hands in his pockets and uneasy glances at groups of people milling about—their too-loud laughter is as genuine as they are drunk, but it still makes him flinch.

                There are empty benches available at the station but he leans against the wall instead, near the stairs up. It’s a Friday night and still too early for most people to be heading home with the clubs open until sunrise, so the station is largely deserted. There’s an old human woman in pearls clutching her purse and glaring at him over her glasses, and Fenris resists the urge to glare back.

                He blinks, and the old woman is no longer alone. A human who looks as washed-out as his clothing, a vacant expression peering out from under his hood. He murmurs to her, softly, and she suddenly looks away from Fenris, off into the rows of train tracks between them and the other side of the station, a pleasant smile on her face.

                “You’re still not happy to see me,” Cole says, softly, suddenly leaning against the wall next to Fenris.

                “I’m shocked,” Fenris says.

                “She looked a little like him, darker, much darker, why call it blood writing if it’s so white against her skin? _They’re for June_ , _God of Craft_. We tumble in my bedroom when she’s supposed to be cleaning mother’s sheets.”

                Fenris scowls.

                “You wanted to know what I told her.”

                “No, I didn’t.”

                “You did.” Cole hums, off-key. “Your phone wants to talk to you.”

                Dorian has tried many, many times to explain to Cole the difference between animate and inanimate objects, but Fenris can’t be bothered to try. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, knowing that if anyone were to try anything Cole will certainly let the whole world know what shoes they wore last week before they get near him.

                It’s a message from Varric.

-{ Hey Broody hope your super important banquet thing went well

-{ See look how invested I am in your life

-{ I remember things

-{ Anyway it’s your day off tomorrow, right?

-{ I’ll probably be in bed when you get this, so gimme a call when you have a couple minutes tomorrow

                “It’s about your sister,” Cole clarifies as Fenris tucks his phone away.

                Fenris closes his eyes and rolls his head back until it touches the wall behind him. They stand in silence for a time—Fenris lost in thought, worry creasing his brow. Is it trust that allows him to let Cole watch out for danger? Second-hand at best, through Aevalle, but trust nonetheless.

                Then Cole says, so softly, “Big green eyes—so big. The only thing of his that looks like mama.”

                Fenris feels all the air leave his lungs.

                “He won’t look at me _why won’t he look at me_ —mother’s screaming, screaming, and they’re dragging her away _and he won’t look at me_. I was supposed to protect him but now he’s walking where I can’t follow.”

                Fenris’ knees feel weak. He bends at the waist and plants his palms on his legs, moving his mouth but there’s no air coming in—he feels dizzy.

                “He won’t stop crying and it’s not safe. It’s not safe. The trees are tall and there’s a stranger _and why didn’t mama come with us_? But we’re outside the walls now, and he has mama’s eyes.”

                He tries to say _stop_ , tries to say anything, but he can’t. He’s dimly aware of his fingers digging into his legs through his jeans.

               Whatever Cole is about to say is interrupted by the rattle of the train arriving at the station, and Fenris jerks upright, air rushing into his lungs.

 

In her dream, the cop has his hand on Hawke’s shoulder and he’s shoving her against the wall.

                “Papers, knife-ear,” he says. “I won’t ask you again.”

                He’s towering over her, and her shoulder hurts where he’s pressing it against the rough brick behind her. _Good,_ she thinks, _let it._ It cuts through the haze of the serious amount of whiskey she’s been drinking and lets her see his face a little clearer—pale, dark eyes, clean shaven. His breath smells like street meat, and it makes her stomach roll.

                “Look here, trailer trash,” he says, punctuating his sentence with yanking her back from the wall once to shove her against it again, harder. “We have a fucking curfew for you people in this city. So show me your goddamn papers and I won’t have to take you in. Got it?”

                “I’m too drunk for this,” she says. “ _Fenedhis lasa_ , _shemlen_.”

                She feels his body shift, feels one of his hands drop her shoulders. She can see the line of his shoulders moving, his torso twisting as he raises his arm, pulling it back. He’s a slow, big hulk of a _shemlen_ , and even drunk as she is she could probably dodge it, could let his face smash into the brick wall behind her. From there it would be easy to disarm him while he’s distracted by the pain, to go for his knees until he crumples against the ground under her. She might get a few good kicks to his skull before his partner comes at her.

                Instead, she lets his fist collide with her face.

                The pain flares up in her cheek, he drops her and she falls, bringing a hand to her face out of reflex.

                He stands over her, about to gloat, and she barks out a laugh.

                “That’s it?” Her fingers curl on her cheek. “That’s—what the fuck.”

                He grabs her by the front of her shirt with a fistful of a worn-out knit scarf and yanks her up. The scarf tightens around her neck and her mind reels at the threat of suffocation, but she blinks it away, still laughing.

                “Go ahead,” she says. “I’ll give you another one free. See if you can do better this time, _shem_.”

                “Alright Jeven, that’s enough,” the man’s partner says. “We’ll take her in for breaking curfew and for refusing to show her identification. No need to rough her up any longer. She’s learned her lesson.”

                “That’s right,” she says, “I’ve learned that you’re a fucking pussy who can’t even hit a girl.”

                _You know_ , Hawke manages to think, _they say I’ve got a death wish._

                He hits her again, harder, and she feels her nose break, feels it break and snap and twist and all that disgusting shit starts pouring out of it, and she hears the partner yell “ _Fuck’s sake_ Jeven she’s a kid!”

                She laughs. She laughs harder, so hard her gut is rolling, and he curses at her again but there’s fear in his voice, something unsettled in his expression. She grins at him, feral and bright and wild, and she says, “Much fucking better,” her fingers curling and finding purchase on the wall behind her.

                Then someone from the other end of the alley yells, “There you are!”

                The cop freezes. Hawke frowns and tilts her head to the side, just slightly. The person she is in the dream doesn’t recognise the voice at all— _holy shit it’s dad_ —and she scowls watching this new shem walk out of the shadows.

                He’s so young, Hawke manages to think. Not a speck of grey in his dark hair or beard. She forgets sometimes how much she takes after him—those are her cheekbones, the smirk she always sees in the mirror, those grey eyes under the mess of his hair.

                “Thanks for finding my cousin, officer,” he says, as if she isn’t being shoved against a wall, as if there isn’t pus leaking out of her broken nose.

                “Your cousin,” the man holding her says.

                “On my mom’s side. You can’t see the resemblance?”

                He meets her gaze, this strange newcomer. He winks.

                The cop is on the ground before he can blink, and even as the shem jumps in to help her the other cop has his gun out, shouting at them to put their hands on the wall—

 

Hawke jerks awake, staring up at the ceiling of her bedroom at the absolute pitch black of early, early morning, and breathes like she’s been holding her breath.

                She doesn’t even look at the clock. She rolls over and fumbles with her bedside table until she finds her phone—not the one damaged in the fall, months ago, the new one.

               Her fingers fly through her contacts list and her thumb hovers over Fenris’ number and she breathes, just breathes.

                She doesn’t call him. She opens up her notes app, opens a new file and starts typing.

                She only has a few minutes before she gets too confused trying to recall all the details, so her words are stream of consciousness, wild and sometimes the autocorrect fucks them up and she can’t spare the time to go back and replace them. If she gets too stuck on one detail, she loses all the rest.

                Eventually the adrenaline wears off and her hands are shaking as she tries to figure out what came next. But she’s lost it—she closes her eyes and can _feel_ her nose breaking, _feel_ the rough wall at her back, the burn of whiskey at her throat. Her father’s voice.

                Only then does she glance at the time on her phone. She groans and her face falls forward onto her mattress. It’s two in the morning for fuck’s sake—her alarm goes off in an hour and a half. Prior experience has taught her that there’s no getting back to sleep, not with her limbs still shaking and sweat still cold on her skin.

                It’s been like this ever since that night almost two months ago. Every night, the strange dreams. Pieces and fragments of a past that’s not hers. Sometimes her father is in them—sometimes Aevalle’s strange apostate. _The Dread Wolf_. A figure from Dalish myth. She still can’t quite wrap her head around that one. She hasn’t really tried.

                She rolls onto her back as she scrolls back up, looking for a clue. There’s a name that sticks out, and she frowns—Jeven? One of the cops. It’s strangely familiar.

                A search for _Jeven Kirkwall_ comes up with a hundred old news stories, and she remembers—that was the crooked cop she’d seen skulking around Darktown sometimes. A few careful questions to some smooth-talking dwarven ladies she knew from the Coterie and she’d gotten a pretty good idea of exactly how much he owed them. Since Aveline had decided not to arrest her and Carver a couple times, she’d passed along the info.

                She makes a face, remembering _knife-ear_ , remembering how easily he was goaded into hitting her. _Aevalle_ , she thinks, _your mom had serious fucking issues_.

                That’s still the only theory she’s got, and it’s the one she’s sticking with. Never mind that she hasn’t actually talked to Aevalle about this—or anyone, really. Not even Varric. Or Anders, who probably has the best shot of understanding what’s going on. And not Fenris. Definitely not Fenris.

                She lowers her phone to her chest and sighs, staring up at the ceiling. She’s trying to think of the last time she saw him outside of Wicked Grace nights. That night after the dragon. That night she said...

_Like a guard dog_.

                She bites her lip. Yeah, not one of her brightest moments.

                Oh, they certainly see each other at Wicked Grace. They say hello. Hawke teases Aevalle about her secret boyfriend, and Varric asks when she’s going to invite him to play with them. Fenris and Anders argue about magic, and Dorian jumps in sometimes—on either side of the argument. Isabela still tries to guess the colour of Fenris’ underwear, and Merrill makes faces at Fenris while he rolls his eyes. Fenris talks most frequently with Cassandra, calmly, and they argue about little. Once, he and Bull take turns telling everyone about a battle on Seheron involving Fog Warriors, a lightning rod, and two very stupid Tevinter foot soldiers.

                Fenris smiles as they finish, and everyone is laughing. Hawke pretends not to stare. He pretends not to glance her way.

                But Hawke and Fenris do not speak to each other. They say hello. They say goodbye. They speak to everyone and everything but one another, but they only seem to be looking at one another when they’re not staring down at the cards in their hands.

                It’s been—what, almost two months? Isabela’s threatened to handcuff them to a bed. Repeatedly.

                To be fair to Fenris, she hasn’t seen almost anyone else outside of Wicked Grace nights. Varric shows up sometimes with her favourite Antivan takeout, bags reeking of fried fish, and they hang out or watch movies until they have to get to bed. Varric seems to guess that something’s up—she left her laptop open on the counter once, browser open to a search for _what is mythal’s judgement and why is it scary_ and she got a very concerned lecture about waiting for Aevalle to tell them when she’s ready. Not to mention the pointed questions about her obvious lack of sleep.

                She almost told Varric then. But Dwarves don’t dream, and she doesn’t want him to worry.

                She rubs her face with her hands. She picks up her phone again and thinks about calling Fenris—but instead she opens up her email.

_Hey Aveline,_

_Funny question. Did my dad ever get arrested? By Jeven. You remember him, right? I mean he used to have your job so I guess you would..._

_There would have been an elf with him? A female elf? Probably with a broken nose._

_I was just going through Mom’s things and I found a weird letter. Probably nothing._

_Let me know,_

_Hawke_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to stop updating this fic on the tail end of my 12 hour shifts because I never remember what notes I want to add here :|
> 
> Hope everyone's ready for a couple of "what have they been up to" chapters because that's what we're getting
> 
> They're exciting I promise. Only a little bit of an angst train. Just a tiny bit.


	29. Listen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit NSWF content.

Summer in Kirkwall is almost hot enough to be summer in Rivain, and normally the heat has Isabela outside, wearing the shortest shorts and the skimpiest tops she can buy, her fingers wound in Merrill’s and a sway in her step _just_ to see how many heads they turn as they walk. Merrill still blushes every time, the precious thing. Sometimes Aevalle comes along and Isabela walks between them, her arms on their shoulders, and they _laugh_ at the scandalized looks they get.

                The heat is soaring today, and it’s chased almost everyone out of Merrill’s cramped apartment building in the alienage district—which is probably a good thing, considering the noises coming out of Isabela and Merrill’s mouths.

                Isabella has her fingers digging into Aevalle’s hips as she rides her from behind, the double-sided strap on sending vibrations through both of them with every thrust. Aevalle’s moans and gentle laughter are, as always, so goddamn soft, muffled in between Merrill’s legs. Aevalle moves with that infuriating patience and control, her tongue and her fingers moving with precision even as Merrill’s voice climbs, even as Merrill digs the fingers of her left hand into Aevalle’s scalp, even as her right hand smothers Bela’s breast and her tongue twines with Bela’s, their spines bent so their mouths meet over Aevalle’s back.

                “Harder Bela,” Merrill whines, and Isabela gasps in frustration.

                “Kitten,” she grunts.

                “I want to come last,” she pleads. “I want—ah, _Lethallan!_ ”

                Aevalle can only laugh against Merrill’s flesh. Bela grips her ass harder, just to get a moan out of her. It’s so soft— _how does Aevalle always manage to be so quiet_ —but the sound of it sends a shudder up Isabela’s spine. She groans with delight and frustration all in one and feels herself tighten on her end of the strap on.

                Just as she thinks that she’s got herself under control again, Merrill parts her lips from Bela’s and starts with the elven.

                Holy fuck. Isabela doesn’t understand a word of it, but it’s rattling out of Merrill’s mouth at a rapid pace. Merrill starts speaking it against Bela’s lips, the hand on her breast moving in time with her words. It’s all consonants and vowels to Isabela, but Merrill’s voice becomes lilting and breathy, and Bela finds her lips trembling when they brush.

                The change in Aevalle is immediate. When she moans it’s just a touch louder, and her hips grind back against Isabela faster, harder, and something changes up where her face is buried in Merrill because Merrill gasps mid-sentence. Merrill’s voice climbs until she’s screaming, rutting against Aevalle’s face and hands, begging and pleading in a language Isabella is starting to think she should learn.

                Merrill drops her face to Isabella’s shoulder and bites the base of her neck, still screaming broken obscenities in elven through her teeth, and Aevalle’s movements become frantic, desperate, her rhythm forcing Isabela to rider her harder, faster, until she’s too tight and everything’s too hot and she doesn’t think she can take it any longer.

                Aevalle shifts, just enough, and it jerks the strap on in such a way that Isabella loses it. Her own cries drown out Merrill’s as her nails bite harder into Aevalle’s ass, as her hips jerk and she thrusts without rhythm, without sense, driving the strap on harder into Aevalle, deeper. Through the haze of her orgasm she is dimly aware of Aevalle’s muffled cry— _so goddamn quiet_ —and the feeling of the toy pulled between them as they jerk, out of sync, and then she’s aware of nothing but her own heat, her body clenching down on the vibrations inside of her, and Merrill’s screaming in her ear.

                They rock together until their bodies slow, and Merrill falls back onto the floor with an exhausted sigh, signalling the end. Isabela turns off the vibrator before she pulls out of Aevalle, who gasps in relief, rolling over onto her back. It takes Isabela an embarrassing amount of effort to remove the strap on, and Merrill and Aevalle are both laughing by the time she’s done. She chides them with a smile as they crawl into Merrill’s tiny bed together, exhausted.

                Isabela wakes to the light of the setting sun spilling into the apartment, alone in the bed. She can hear Merrill and Aevalle speaking in elven, in low voices, and she opens one eye to see them standing before the mirror, naked. There’s something desperate in Merrill’s expression as she meets Aevalle’s, and Isabela smiles to herself at the way Aevalle draws her fingertips along the _vallaslin_ on Merrill’s shoulder.

                Oh, her elven lovers can pretend that this is only sex and friendship all they want, but Isabela sees their quiet moments when they think no one is looking. She wonders why they won’t just admit it to one another and stop worrying about it so much. Hadn’t Merrill confessed her love for Isabella the first time they’d fucked? It had taken Bela longer, but there wasn’t all this awkwardness between them.

                Merrill says something in elven, something that sounds uplifting and sweet, and Aevalle’s gaze falls, her hand slips from Merrill’s shoulder. Merrill looks pained, but she says nothing else. She and Aevalle stand and stare at the smooth surface of the strange mirror, something Isabela doesn’t think she’ll ever know hanging between them.

                Then Merrill says something in a low, flat voice, and Aevalle snaps her head back to look at the other elf, eyes wide.

                “Merrill,” she says.

                “Do you know any other way?”

                Aevalle glances back at the mirror.

                “I’m not stupid, _Lethallan_. I know the risks. And we’ve run out of options.”

                Aevalle doesn’t look back at Merrill, setting her jaw in a tight line and crossing her arms. “Maybe we haven’t,” she says.

                “You said yourself the _Virabelasan_ has nothing new to offer you. _Lethallan_ I don’t like it either but it’s the only chance we have to get the eluvian working.”

                “They’ve said one thing.”

                “And that is?”

                Isabela can see the shadowed line of Aevalle’s throat move as she swallows. “Ask the Dread Wolf.”

                Merrill laughs—dark and low and there’s anger around the edges, real and raw. “Oh no,” she says, “absolutely not.”

                “And why not?” Aevalle takes Merrill’s hands in hers and holds them, although Merrill avoids her gaze. “Maybe I was wrong about him. I think he was telling the truth.”

                “Are you listening to yourself?” Aevalle looks away, and Merrill reaches up to cup her face with one hand, to pull her gaze back with a gentle touch. “ _Lethallan_ , he’s the _Dread Wolf_. And you told me what he did to Mythal. Do you really want him knowing there’s an eluvian that leads right to you? Right to this place?”

                Aevalle smiles, a little sadly. “He knows I’m here Merrill. If he wanted to steal me away he could have done it ages ago. Cole says he means me no harm.”

                “Cole,” Merrill says, “is often blinded by the pain of others. Just because it might hurt Fen’harel to do it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t.”

                “I’d rather take my chances with someone whose motives we understand than a spirit we don’t, God or no. It’s less of a risk.”

                “I can’t lose you,” Merrill says, softly, drawing her hand up to tangle her fingers in Aevalle’s hair.

                Something stills in Aevalle’s expression. “Merrill,” she says, her voice thick.

                “It’s the truth. You’re—you’re too important.”

                Aevalle jerks away from Merrill like she’s been struck. “Not this again,” she says, and she starts to pace.

                Merrill looks physically wounded. “ _Lethallan_.”

                Aevalle has suddenly gotten very quiet. Her words are practically mumbled, and she’s clenching and unclenching her left hand into a fist. She always does it when she’s frightened, and it makes Isabela frown. What’s to be scared of?

                Merrill says something quickly in Elven, trying to touch Aevalle’s arm as she passes. Aevalle slips just past her grip, leaving Merrill’s hand hanging in the air.

                “It’s true,” Merrill says, softly. “You’re—”

                “ _Tel’Dirtha._ ”

                “You’re a wonder, _Lethallan_. The world hasn’t seen your like in eons, and I won’t let him take you if I can help it.”

                Aevalle’s shoulders shake and her head twists. Is she laughing? It’s hard to tell. Isabela wonders if she should get up, but she’s entranced watching them.

                “You’re more important than me or—”

                Aevalle whirls.

                “ _Don’t_.”

                Her voice is barely a whisper, barely a breath on the air. Her hands find either side of Merrill’s face and she pulls them together, their foreheads touching. Aevalle’s fingers curl in Merrill’s short hair and she closes her eyes, her expression desperate—like Merrill’s a lifeline, solid, safe. She opens her eyes and a thousand emotions seem to flicker through them, none of which Isabela can identify but all of them break her heart.

                “I’m not,” Aevalle breathes. Her lips moving and barely any sound coming out. Then, so soft that Isabela has to read her lips, “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

                Merrill’s hands find Aevalle’s face, shaking, and she draws her thumbs across her lover’s _vallaslin_. “ _Dirtha ma_ ,” she whispers. “Tell me.”

                Instead Aevalle kisses her, hard, fast, rough, and Merrill gasps through their lips as she tries to keep up, until Aevalle ducks her head to Merrill’s neck. Aevalle walks her backwards until Merrill’s up against the mirror, and Merrill’s hands scramble for purchase until she finds Aevalle’s hair, the back of her neck.

                “ _Lethallan_ ,” she whines. “Please. Let me-”

                “ _Din_ ,” Aevalle murmurs into Merrill’s skin. “Merrill, you’re so— _fuck_.”

                “I want you to—”

                Aevalle silences her with a bite on her neck, hard, fast, her teeth flashing against her dark lips in the fading light.

                “ _Listen_ ,” Aevalle growls into her neck. “ _Banal’ar_ , Merrill. I don’t need or want any sacrifice on your part.”

                “But I—”

                Aevalle cuts off Merrill’s shaking voice by taking her lips again, rough, hard, and Merrill shakes and tries to find a place to put her hands before she settles on Aevalle’s bare back, drawing her nails along her shoulders.

                Aevalle bows her head and Merrill gasps for air, only to cover a cry with her own fingers when Aevalle takes her nipple between her teeth. Isabela watches Merrill’s hips buck into the air between them, watches Aevalle shove a knee between her legs for Merrill to grind down on. Her ass slaps against the surface of the mirror and she forgets about trying to stifle her cries, digging her nails into Aevalle’s back and drawing blood.

                “Aevalle,” she cries. “ _Lethallan. Ar la—Fenedhis._ Fuck. _”_

                Aevalle pulls back her knee and Merrill almost sinks down on its absence. She whimpers at the denial, but she only has a moment to complain before Aevalle thrusts a finger inside her, then twists her hand.

                “Yes,” Merrill breathes, “yes, let me—let me touch you— _there_ , more, _harder_.”

                Aevalle redoubles her efforts, and although Isabela can’t quite see the movement of her wrist but she can see its shadow jerking, wildly, in and out as Merrill writhes and screams, a dark reflection of their desperation spilling across the apartment floor.

                Aevalle’s hand pauses, and Merrill cries out in elven, frantic and quick-tongued, and then she resumes, a little slower, a little more effort. She shifts to switch the breast her mouth is lathing, and Merrill’s legs find their way up around her hips. One leg slips and Aevalle reaches back to hold her ankles against her back, and Isabela can see two fingers pumping in and out of Merrill, a thumb pressed hard against her clit.

                The mirror behind them rattles as they fuck, fast and hard and with Merrill keening for all the world to hear while Aevalle doesn’t make a goddamn sound. Its frame bangs against the wall and there’s a moment where Isabela thinks it will shatter and all Merrill’s hard work will be in pieces on the floor, but it holds, it holds, even as Merrill throws back her head, even as her hands slip and her elbows slam backwards onto its smooth, dark surface.

                “Please,” Merrill’s screaming. “I—I need—I want—” And the rest is elven, wild and unintelligible and frantic, but Isabela suspects it’s as senseless as the rest.

                There’s another shift, the smallest of grunts from Aevalle. Then her hand isn’t pumping anymore, just pushing, and Isabela can’t see the number of fingers from where she lies on the bed but she can see Merrill’s expression, the way her legs tighten around Aevalle’s hips and the fierceness with which her arms tense around Aevalle’s shoulders, the new dots of blood welling up on her back under Merrill’s nails.

                “ _Tel—fenedhis—tel—Ar—_ fuck! Aevalle!”

                Aevalle’s shaking with the strain of holding Merrill against the mirror. Isabela can see the muscles along her back and legs twitch, the curl of her toes as she keeps going. Merrill’s pale skin is flushed all over, every line of her body tensed with anticipation, with need, with want. The setting sun coming through Merrill’s single window is highlighting every bead of sweat along their bodies, casting the curve of their throats and the places their eyelashes flutter in dark, exquisite shadow.

                Then Aevalle starts to not so much pump her hand but jerk it, trying to drive even deeper. Merrill’s an absolute wreck, her face twisted up, and she’s begging in a language Isabela can’t understand, high and keening, jerking her hips forward against Aevalle’s hand and then back. The sound of their flesh slapping, Merrill’s ass smacking back against the mirror, her sweat-soaked back riding up and down its surface are drowned out by the mixed obscenities coming out of Merrill’s mouth.

                “Mythal!” she cries. “June! Sylaise! _Fenedhis_ , Elgar’nan! Andrui— _aahh_!”

                That’s when Aevalle jerks her head away from Merrill’s breast and draws her lips up to her ear.

                She speaks in a low voice, so soft that Isabela struggles to hear her—she can’t, not over Merrill’s desperate panting, and her lips are in the shadow of Merrill’s hair so she can’t read them. But her voice rises, slowly, in volume, and Merrill’s whines and moans and soft pleading noises begin to fall away, startled to silence. Each of Aevalle’s words is punctuated by a thrust of her hand, hard enough to force Merrill’s back flush with the mirror, hard enough to make her head roll back, her lips parted and her eyes stare wide open at the ceiling above them.

                “You are loved,” she growls into Merrill’s ear. “You are more important than this fucking mirror. Than our fucking past.”

                “ _Ar lath ma_ ,” Merrill blurts.

                Aevalle smiles and kisses Merrill’s neck. Then she thrusts her hand forward, hard, rolling her hips and rocking Merrill back against the mirror, crushing her against it as she sucks hard on her neck.

                Merrill screams, wordless and raw. Her toes curl and her legs spasm, and she tries to pull Aevalle closer still, and she screams as she ruts and thrusts her hips and claws her hands all over Aevalle’s shoulders and back, and there’s no rhythm to whatever’s going on between them any more, just pure movement, raw emotion and need and the slickness of sweat and want between them.

                Eventually, Merrill’s motions slow to a jerking halt. Her feet begin to slip again and Aevalle lowers her to the floor, as slowly as she can with shaking limbs. They kiss then, with desperation, tenderness, and Merrill’s fingertips are flitting across Aevalle’s back as she feels for the marks she’s made, for the lines of blood trickling down her copper skin.

                “ _Ir abelas_ ,” Merrill whimpers, her voice shuddering. “ _Ir abelas_. I promised.”

                Aevalle’s laugh is gentle, soft. Accepting. She chases the tears that fall from Merrill’s eyes with her lips.

                “ _Ar lath ma_ ,” Merrill breathes. “ _Ar lath ma_. Now I’ve done it. Three times!”

                Aevalle mutters something in elven against Merrill’s skin. It sounds comforting.

                “That’s fine for you to say,” Merrill grumbles through half-formed sobs. “I promised you! And here we are tumbling on the— _did we just fuck on the eluvian_?”

                Aevalle laughs. It’s low and breathy and surprisingly loud, and Merrill clings tight to her at the sound of it.

                “Technically we fucked _up against_ the _eluvian_ ,” Aevalle says, still laughing.

                Merrill catches the laugh with her mouth. They kiss for a while longer, and Isabela starts to wonder when she’ll get a chance to sneak away and relieve the pressure between her legs. But then Merrill’s hands find the front of Aevalle’s shoulders, and their elven pariah starts to push until Aevalle is on her back on the floor.

                They can’t see her with the way they’re lying, and Isabela shifts with a smile, trailing a lazy hand across her body, following the trail Merrill’s kisses are making along Aevalle’s skin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tel dirtha - Don't speak / Don't say it  
> Din - No  
> Banal'ar - I am nothing / I am worthless
> 
> \--
> 
> Is hot, desperate eluvian sex a thing for Merrill fanfiction? Because it should be.
> 
> Fun fact, Merrill saved up for ages to get that toy for Aevalle and Bela. She likes watching them.


	30. New Message from Rivaini

_New message from Rivaini_

-{ Varric we have a problem

                -{ No one ever texts me with good news, do they

                -{ Who’s been kidnapped now

-{ Very funny

-{ Merrill’s crying her eyes out in the bathroom and  
    you’re making jokes

                -{ Shit, again?

                -{ What is with those two?

-{ Look I don’t know and I’m fucking both of them

-{ Merrill locked the door and she won’t let me in.   
    Can you call her? Please?

-{ You always make her laugh.

                -{ Yeah she’s not picking up

-{ Of course not

-{ :|

-{ Try her again.

                -{ Rivaini I don’t think she wants to be cheered up right now

-{ Yes Varric thank you I didn’t notice that

                -{ Look they’ll be fine again in a week, right?

                -{ No need to panic

-{ I don’t know, Varric

-{ I think it’s bad this time

-{ They were talking about some heavy shit

-{ And then they

-{ Hang on I need to find a way to say this that won’t  
    offend your delicate sensibilities

-{ They uh

-{ Did it up against Merrill’s demon mirror

                -{ Why does Daisy keep doing this to me

                -{ She was so sweet and innocent in my head

-{ Not gonna lie it was really hot

                -{ They did this while you were watching!

-{ They do shit like that all the time!

-{ Okay maybe not against the mirror that’s new

-{ You have no idea how much stamina it takes to   
    keep up with them

                -{ And I don’t want to

                -{ Ever

-{ Anyway they always think I’m sleeping

-{ Apparently they think I can sleep through anything,  
    the way Merrill screams

                -{ Rivaini

                -{ We talked about this

-{ Sorry

-{ Did you just try to call her?

                -{ No

-{ Oh

-{ I think it was Aevalle

                -{ Did she say anything?

-{ No she just keeps crying

                -{ What are they fighting about?

-{ It’s not good, Varric

-{ They were talking about the mirror

                -{ That thing gives me the creeps

-{ Same

-{ It’s not working

-{ And I don’t really understand it

-{ But to get it working it sounds like they’re   
    between two very shitty choices

-{ And they were fighting about it

-{ And in the middle of it all Merrill said I love you

-{ So I thought, okay, they’re good now, right?

-{ But then after they did it again on the floor

                -{ Holy shit you weren’t kidding about the stamina

-{ I know right?

-{ ;)

-{ Anyway after that they started arguing about it all  
    over again

-{ And most of it was in elven so I missed it

-{ But seriously Varric whatever Merrill’s going to   
    have to do to get this mirror working it isn’t good

-{ Aevalle is the champion of bad life decisions and   
    she thinks it’s not a good idea

                -{ Oh shit speaking of

                -{ What time did Aevalle leave?

-{ Couple hours ago

                -{ Hang on

-{ ????

                -{ Yeah I just texted Broody

                -{ She’s not at home

-{ Shit

                -{ He just said he thinks he knows where she might be

                -{ He’s going to go look for her now

-{ Good old Fenris

-{ Reliable

-{ Grouchy, but reliable

-{ Gotta go looks like Merrill’s coming out of the  
    bathroom

-{ Don’t tell her I told you any of this

-{ Haven’t fessed up I watched the whole thing yet

                -{ ... Rivaini I don’t know what to say to that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look things get happy eventually okay??? I promise
> 
> Just a quick breather chapter. I know everyone is probably wondering where the plot ran off to again but trust me, there's quite a bit of shit to set up before we hit the final stretch. I promise it's going to be a fun ride!
> 
> [Oh and there's a post going around tumblr right now to create a masterpost for lesser-known Dragon Age fanfic writers](http://kestrelsansjesses.tumblr.com/post/121370692429/dragon-age-lesser-known-fanfic-authors-masterpost) \- if you're on tumblr and you do the fanfic stuff, give it a reblog with your info!


	31. Months and All the Wrong Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: recreational drug use.

“Ah,” Solas says as she comes out of the bathroom. “Good, it fits.”

                Hawke— _not Hawke, some strange dream version of Hawke that is in no control of what she says or thinks or does—_ feels she should apologize for the length of time it took her to change. She's been sitting in the bathroom for an hour spacing out, running the fabric of the dress between the fingers of her now healed hand. Comparing it to her right hand. Is there a difference? Is she imagining things? 

                The dress is soft and the print is floral. It's probably second hand, and it's certainly a size too big but then again, she's about two sizes too small in the bathroom mirror. The difference between what she looks like and how she should is jarring, and she clenches her hands into fists thinking about it.

                “I imagine it's a little old for your tastes,” he says, soft laughter in his voice. “But it will do until we get into town.”

                Where did you get this, she wonders. “Where are we?” she asks instead. Winces at the sound of her own voice; rough, her throat burning.

                He approaches. “May I?” He asks. 

                His touch on her throat is feather light and the pulse of the healing magic is gentle.

                “We are on the outskirts of Nevarra.” He tells her. 

                She bites her lip. “Near Tevinter?”

                “We are near the border to Orlais.”

                She nods. “I'm sorry,” she says, unsure how to say what she means. “I don't –do you know the date?”

                His face twists. She tries not to look at his expression. He saw her hand, he can probably guess what she went through. 

                “The tenth of Bloomingtide,” he says, gently.

                She nods. It's all she can manage.

                “How long?” he asks.

                “Almost a year,” she says, distantly.

                She's thinking of two children and a song.

                “ _Ma serannas, hahren_ ,” she says as his hands fall from her throat, her voice smooth and whole once more. He does not move, and he frowns, as if he wants to say something. Something comforting, probably, and she doesn't want to hear it. She doesn't have time for it.

                “I will trouble you no longer,” she says, and tries to move past him, ducking her head.

                “ _Da'len_ ,” he says, and he grabs her shoulders. She jerks at the sudden contact, but she's too weak to fight him so she forces her body still, glaring up at him.

                He is unfazed by the rage and the instinctive fear coursing through her too thin limbs, and his concerned frown is tender around the edges. 

                “ _Ir abelas, da’len,_ ” he says, “but I don’t think you're in any condition to travel alone.”

                “ _Ar tel'da’len, hahren,_ ” she spits.

                “I can see that,” he says, a little patronizing. “But you intend to rush into danger? After so long under what I can only assume was torture? Why?”

                She does not meet his gaze. 

                “I have a promise to keep,” she says, and her voice catches. She clenches her fists and thinks no, she will not cry, not in front of this absurd stranger, but then he grips her shoulders tighter, and she wavers, her fury faltering.

                Then there's a knock at the door.

                “I can't come in unless you open,” a familiar voice says, frantic.

                She stares. The strange man turns, frowning, and she shoves free of his grasp, stumbling forward. She fumbles with the deadbolt and the chain until she gets the door open, and there's Cole, of all people, Cole, standing there with a paper takeout bag that smells like home.

                “ _Isa’ma’lin,”_ she breathes.

                “I'm sorry,” he says. Then, so softly, “You can cry now. You're safe.”

                He catches her when her knees give out, and she balls her hands into fists in his shirt and clings to him, shaking and not making a sound. Her mouth moves and she feels like noise should be coming out of her throat, but the only sound she makes is her breathing. Cole murmurs her thoughts in her ear, his voice shaking, shaking.

                “So long almost a year can't keep going like this it burns it burns can't scream they'll find me can't scream they'll hurt me more they put a gun to his head make him swear by Mythal, what a fucking joke she's dead, she's all I have and she'll never forgive me they're dead because of me, such a sweet little thing and I promised I promised I promised. _Abelas, abelas Nadas’lin, abelas_ , I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

                As her hurts spill out of her spirit brother's mouth, she feels them less. He is not warm, her strange brother; there isn't a thing like life in the physical parts of him. But he holds her, he knows the darkest thing she's done and he's still here anyway, still holding her tight and whispering her secrets to pull them from her soul and bring them into the air, and at the end of it all she feels drained, filthy, raw, but loved. Unconditionally loved.

 

It’s her mother’s birthday, which means that she and Carver spend way too long at Gamlen’s, commiserating.

                Carver, predictably, makes a phone call and takes off as soon as they’re on the front step of Gamlen’s lowtown apartment building. They share a sympathetic look as he starts to go—one good thing to come out of their kidnapping, she thinks. At least they’re alright again.

                “Going to call Varric?” Carver asks.

                “Forgot my phone at home,” she says. Had looked at it on the counter and she hadn’t been sure if Gamlen was going to convince them to drink with him. In which case she shouldn’t trust herself around the thing. Not pushing, remember Hawke? Avoiding like the plague.

                Her cheeks still colour as she remembers that drunk call, not long after her mother’s funeral. Holy fuck, it’s a wonder Fenris ever wanted anything to do with her.

                Not pushing. Not even on a day like today, when all she wants is to call him and do something irresponsible, to get her mind off of her mother.

                Leandra had liked him—that’s still a shock to Hawke, after all this time.

                _He seems very quiet_ , she said, smiling. _It’s good for you._

                Of course that turned into an argument. Most things had, towards the end. Then again, that was after he left, and they weren’t speaking, and all she had was Aevalle’s word to go by.

                Hawke shakes the thought off, realising she’s been sitting in her car, full stop, at a green light.

                “Wake up, Hawke,” she mutters to herself. “Too much weird shit in your head.”

                Last night, the dream was about Aevalle’s apostate. The Dread Wolf? She drums her fingers on the steering wheel and has a hard time believing it. Of course any attempt to ask Aevalle for more details are met with an awkward silence, sometimes Merrill rushing to defend her. _Not pushing, Hawke_ , she thinks, but it’s hard, because she’s losing too much fucking sleep over all this bullshit.

                Her thoughts are interrupted when she pulls up to her house and Fenris’ car is parked on the street.

                She actually drives around the block twice to be sure. She thinks this is a perfectly reasonable reaction—until some of the neighbours are giving her strange looks on the second pass. She parks in the driveway and tries to smooth out her hair, feeling an embarrassed heat on her cheeks. What could bring Fenris here? With no preamble, why didn’t he—

                _Right_. She left her phone on the counter precisely so she wouldn’t call Fenris in a drunken stupor. Remember when that seemed like a good life decision, Hawke? Because suddenly it doesn’t.

                She wonders, for a moment, if something awful happened. Then, with heat burning all the way up to her ears, she wonders if he’s done waiting, and she grabs the rear view mirror, adjusting it to check her makeup.

                There’s a blond boy in a hoodie sitting in the back seat where there wasn’t one before.

                Hawke screams. She’s not proud.

                “Maybe it’s time,” he’s muttering. “Maybe he’s ready. Maybe Danarius isn’t hanging between us—” Cole blinks. “I scared you. I’m sorry.”

                “Goddammit,” Hawke breathes, her heart still pounding against her chest. “You are—what the _fuck_.”

                He answers the question she doesn’t have the breath to answer. “Aevalle, Varric, Fenris and me.” Then he squints. “I think. I’m not sure. They’re... _fuzzy_.”

                “Fuzzy?” Hawke parrots, stupidly, as she opens her car door.

                She gets about three steps before she smells the elfroot smoke in the air.

                She freezes in place. She glances at her neighbour, who’s watering his lawn in a pair of heart print boxers. He waves at her with a slightly confused expression and then continues on. No dirty looks, no accusations, no _what has your idiot brother got himself into this time_?

                “They don’t need to know,” Cole says, softly. “It’s harmless fun.”

                That sounds like something Varric might have told him.

                “You mean you made my whole block conveniently oblivious to the fact that my friends are smoking elfroot in the back yard?”

                He wrings his hands. “Aevalle said just this once.”

                Oh the shit she could have used Cole for, in her days running through Darktown. She shakes her head and follows the sound of laughter in the backyard, light and sweet and lazy, and the sound of her mabari barking.

                She turns the corner and there’s Aevalle lying in the grass, trying—and failing—to throw a ball more than three feet for Barkspawn. The dog seems perfectly happy to chase it the small distance it rolls, wagging his stumpy little tail as he catches it and brings it back.

                He sees Hawke and drops the ball by Aevalle’s side, barking as he bounds over, and Hawke protests as she always does but of course he jumps up.

                “No not on—yes, good boy, now get down.”

                The mabari drops to the ground and bounds back over to Aevalle, who is trying to sit up.

                “He wouldn’t do that if you didn’t let him, you know.” Varric says, his voice low and lazy.

                Hawke turns around. Varric’s lounging on a deck chair, an open beer in one hand and a warm, relaxed smile on his face. Fenris is nearby, sitting on the grass and his back against the deck, one arm draped along its edge and a joint hanging loosely from his fingers. He’s smiling, and he’s being really obvious about the long looks he’s giving her, all up and down, lingering on her hips, on her breasts, her neck, her lips. She feels all happy and warm when his eyes meet hers and they stay there.

                Then he seems to remember himself and tries to frown, but it doesn’t really work. He takes another drag from the joint, then reaches up and offers it to Hawke, wordlessly.

                “Hawke!” Aevalle says. “Hawke, we were waiting for you. I think. And we called but you left your phone inside.”

                “Yeah,” says Hawke, taking the joint awkwardly from Fenris. Trying not to touch his hand while she does it, but he jerks his hand and they collide in spite of her best efforts. She feels her cheeks grow hot and tries to look literally anywhere but Fenris’ face. “Yeah—I did, I guess.”

                Aevalle giggles. _Giggles_.

                “Since when do we smoke elfroot?” Hawke wonders aloud just before she takes a drag. She almost chokes on the awful, _awful_ taste of it as it comes down her throat but she keeps it cool.

                “Since Sera gave it to me.”

                “Your weird ex?” Hawke almost drops the joint in shock and revulsion— _what if it’s not just elfroot_? “The—the one with the mouth.”

                Aevalle giggles some more. It’s still weird.

                “We met for coffee. I wanted to—to apologize.” Aevalle frowns for a moment, and then she grins again. “I met her girlfriend! She’s Vashoth and she’s so—” She makes an exaggerated gesture over her breasts. “Nice.”

                “Uh huh.” Hawke looks over at Varric, who seems to be the least affected. “How long have you guys been here?”

                “She’s cut off,” Varric and Fenris say at the same time.

                “You’re no fun,” Aevalle complains. Then she giggles as Barkspawn starts to lick her face.

                Hawke sits cross-legged on the deck between Fenris and Varric, watching Aevalle fall over onto her back, scratching the dog’s ears and speaking to him in ridiculous baby talk. “So,” she says, trying not to laugh at Aevalle, “what’s new?”

                “Broody here got himself a promotion,” Varric says.

                “I start on the line on Monday,” he says. He shifts his arm and it rests against Hawke’s knee. She tries to pretend she hasn’t noticed.

                “Good for you,” she says. “About time.”

                He laughs. Her heart leaps up in her throat, the damned thing.

                “We start school again in two months,” he says. “Any later would have been less than ideal timing for them.”

                Hawke takes another drag, trying to be cool. But his arm is still resting against her knee— _she wore shorts today she can feel his skin it’s so goddamn smooth_ —and he’s looking at her with warmth in his expression, and this is the most they’ve spoken to each other since she fucked up. Playing it cool is proving extremely difficult.

                “So they obviously want to keep you part time in Kingsway,” she says. “Your old job won’t like that.”

                He shrugs. “The pay is much better,” he says, as if it means nothing to him.

                “Oh shut up, Broody,” Varric teases, “you’re tickled pink. Kid over there won’t stop going on about it.”

                Hawke glances up at Cole, who has just joined Aevalle, lying with his back in the grass. “I don’t understand,” he’s mumbling as Aevalle tries to tickle his ears with a blade of grass. “She said what she felt. You like it—but it’s been a long time. But _ar lath ma_ won’t stop her from what she needs to do. Both scare you.”

                Aevalle mutters a response in elven. Hawke glances over at Varric.

                “It uh, looks like she and Daisy had a fight. Rivaini texted me, but most of it was in elven and she doesn’t know the details...”

                “Good riddance,” Fenris says. He jerks his arm away from Hawke’s leg as he shifts position again.

                _Oh,_ Hawke thinks, stupidly. Almost says it. Takes another drag instead, even though it makes her eyes water.

                “Don’t worry too much, Broody,” Varric says, his tone light. He takes the joint from Hawke as soon as she pulls it from her lips. “They’ll be at it again in a week, tops. You know as well as I do they’re like this all the time.”

                Fenris scoffs and looks away. Varric gives Hawke a significant _look_. She ignores it.

                “I... made lunch,” Fenris says, awkwardly. Like his tongue is too heavy in his mouth. “We kept some for you, if you’re hungry.”

                “Uh—yeah,” she says. “Yeah I’m—I forgot to eat. Because I was—my uncle doesn’t believe in—” She swallows. ”I’m hungry. Food sounds great.”

                He’s looking at her again. As if he hasn’t just implied he wants nothing to do with mages, again. As if there isn’t months and all the wrong words and his awful past hanging between them.

                “In the fridge? I’ll uh—I’ll go get it. Thanks.”

                She stands. Her limbs feel not quite attached to the rest of her as she stumbles through the open back door and into the kitchen.

                She grabs her phone off the counter and checks the messages, heart pounding, fingers shaking. From Varric, explaining they’re coming over. Going to distract Aevalle. He won’t tell them about her mom’s birthday if she doesn’t bring it up. From Fenris— _how many from Fenris?_

-{ dannris never ask

-{ fck

-{ he never

-{ fastecas

-{ its hard to talk to u

-{ its hard not to talk to u

-{ i dont think i shld have smoked this much

-{ any

-{ at all

-{ too late

-{ maybe i shld get ur phone

-{ so u dont rd thes

-{ but u locked it

-{ fest b umo canavarm

-{ i miss u

-{ i want to be ready marian

-{ im scared i never will be

                “It’s in the fridge,” Fenris says from the doorway.

                Hawke looks up. Is she blushing? She can’t tell.

                She can’t see his expression, the light of the setting sun coming in through the patio doors behind him, but he must see her looking at her phone because he pauses and says, “Oh,” very softly.

                Her mouth echoes the shape, but no sound comes out.

                _He’s high as a goddamn kite_ , she thinks, and she puts her phone on the counter.

                “Thanks,” she says. “Thanks, I uh—I’m just expecting an email from Aveline.”

                His silhouette is nodding, slowly. Fuck, she can’t see his expression and she’s not sure if she wants to.

                She goes to the fridge and pulls out the plate. Wrapped in plastic—a salad, some thin sliced grilled chicken. Some distant part of her thinks it looks delicious. A less distant part of her wishes she could have seen him make it. An even less distant part of her thinks that’s the most ridiculous thing to get sentimental about.

                She puts it on the counter and rests her hands on either side of it. She feels dizzy, and she closes her eyes.

                Then Fenris is behind her, his hand on her hip.

                Her head jerks up— _oh_ , she thinks, stupidly—and his other hand is moving her hair to expose her neck.

                “Fenris,” she manages to say.

                She can feel his breath on the back of her neck. Hot, sluggish. He’s only touching her in two places, not on her skin, but she feels like she’s burning alive, so suddenly. She stares at the cabinets directly in front of her, taking in slow, shaking breaths.

                “Marian,” he says, slowly.

                _Maker_. One word and she’s quivering. It’s been _too long_ , and she’s been too stressed out with the strange dreams to even distract herself with her fingers. The couple times she’s tried have left her frustrated and gasping at the ceiling of her bedroom, memories that are hers and not hers flitting across her vision.

                Her knuckles are white as she grips the counter. He doesn’t move.

                _He’s not himself_ , she thinks. Some small, traitorous part of her mind says back, _I don’t care_.

                “Fenris,” she says. Her voice is thick with everything unsaid between them— _what didn’t Danarius ask you?_  She thinks she understands but she’s not sure she wants to.

                His breath on her neck stills.

                She licks her lips. “Will you regret this in the morning?”

                He’s silent behind her. She closes her eyes and tries to keep breathing, tries to keep herself from leaning into his touch.

                “I don’t know,” he says. He hesitates before pulling away.

                But he waits in the kitchen with her while she composes herself, looks the other way while she wipes at her traitorous eyes with the palm of her shaking hand. There are a thousand apologies in his eyes, in the way he doesn’t look at her, and finally, in the way he touches her arm with just the tips of his fingers, right before they step back out through the patio doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ar tel'da'len - I'm not a child  
> \---
> 
> I mean I know right at this moment everyone's watching the EA press conference but they're talking about their sports titles and NOT Bioware right now so I'm not paying any attention to it while I apartment hunt on the side.
> 
> Also holy shit 31 chapters? How the hell has this gone on so long. :|


	32. Make Them Better

“Hawke,” Fenris is saying.

                “No complaining,” Hawke says, laughing. Maybe a little too loud. “I took your bed, so you get to take mine.”

                “I can sleep on the couch,” he says. But he’s still following her up the stairs.

                It’s pitch black outside, and the lights inside the house are too bright. She feels warm and dizzy and far away, and she just ate way too much of the pizza they ordered in so now she’s feeling sleepy to top it all off. She’s trying to forget about the thing that didn’t happen in the kitchen. But her fingers feel numb and that’s much more fascinating, isn’t it?

                Fenris doesn’t follow her into her room. She turns around and sees him leaning against the door, looking at her bed with a level of suspicion normally reserved for strangers on public transit with wandering eyes.

                “I changed the sheets recently,” she says. Then she blinks and frowns. “No, wait, I don’t think I did.”

                He laughs. It goes on too long and she stands there listening to it until it dies off, and he looks back up at her awkwardly.

                “That’s not—” He clears his throat. “That’s not it.”

                “I can—I can change them for you.”

                He snorts. “Hawke, it took us an hour to order pizza online.”

                “There were too many choices!”

                His head is bowed and his shoulders are shaking. He glances up at her and he’s—Is he giggling? _He’s giggling_. It’s adorable.

                “It’s—it’s embarrassing, Hawke.”

                “I’m scared of spiders,” she blurts.

                He gives her an incredulous look. “What?”

                “They’re so—crawly and weird. And Dad took me to a museum when I was a kid and they had one of those big ones preserved in a jar and—I’m serious Fenris stop laughing.”

                He doesn’t. He covers his face and snorts as he tries to control himself.

                “And when we lived on the farm Carver found an egg sack lying around and he put it in my duvet and forgot about it—and they hatched in the middle of the night.”

                He’s almost doubled over, he’s laughing so hard, his shoulders shaking as he tries to control it.

                “I almost burned the house down. Dad came in and I was screaming and I wouldn’t stop and there was fire everywhere—” Her smile falters. “He was so—he said _Marian I’m so sorry_ , he just kept saying it while he held me, and I didn’t understand why he was crying, because he put out the fire. I didn’t—I didn’t know I was supposed to be scared of it. The fire. My fire. I was more scared of the spiders.”

                Fenris isn’t laughing anymore. She misses it. The room’s too quiet without it.

                Somewhere in the other room Varric and Cole are getting Aevalle to bed.

                “I don’t _need to sleep_ ,” Aevalle is saying, “ _Isa’ma’lin_ you understand, you see it, you don’t sleep either.”

                “You have a spirit,” Cole says, “you are not a spirit. I’ll protect you. Sleep.”

                Varric must close a door, because Aevalle’s complaints are dampened, and there is silence between them again.

                “Still can’t use a duvet,” she says, stupidly. “Or any blanket thicker than my finger.”

                “It’s—” he hesitates. “I don’t like that there’s space under the bed. Where someone can hide.”

                There are implications there; always are, when Fenris confesses a fear. But she smiles, because _that’s something she can fix_ , and she takes him by the wrist—the wrist wrapped in a worn red bandana—and she leads him to the bed.

                He’s schooled his expression blank, but there’s something about the movement of his eyes that suggests his thoughts are running a mile a minute. _Calm and cool on the surface, paddling like mad underneath_. She grins.

                “You’re such a duck, Fenris,” she says as he sits on the bed.

                He looks at her like she’s grown two heads. “I—what?”

                She doesn’t explain. She gets on all fours and crawls under her bed—it’s a tight squeeze but she fits—giggling.

                “Hawke,” he says, trying not to laugh. “What are you doing?”

                She tries to roll over onto her back but she can’t, there’s not enough space. So she lays flat on her stomach with her hand resting near Fenris’ ankles, hanging off the bed.

                “No one under here but me,” she says.

                “This is— you’re being ridiculous.”

                “Your face is ridiculous.”

                “Get out from there.”

                “No,” she says. “It’s really comfy.”

                It’s not at all, she just thinks she might be stuck and doesn’t want to admit it.

                “Hawke,” he says, “I’m not sleeping in your bed. This is ridiculous.”

                “Please?” She bites her lip, watching as his feet shift, like he’s about to get off her absurdly tall bed. “It’s important. To me.”

                There’s a long, painful moment—and then Fenris sighs. “ _Fastevas_ ,” he grumbles, and his legs swing up, and she can feel him lie down on the mattress above her. “Am I crushing you?” he asks, softly.

                “No,” she says. Smiling. “Are you comfy? Do you need more blankets?”

                “Not after that story.”

                They laugh. She curls her hand in the dust under her bed— _okay apparently she needs to clean under here more often than never—_ and imagines that Fenris is beside her, not above her.

                Or maybe above her just not— _above_ above her. She squeezes her eyes shut and exhales.

                Fenris breaks the long silence just as Hawke feels herself start to drift off. “Danarius never asked me to—sleep on the floor. Outside his door.”

                She opens her eyes. Feels him shift in the bed above her.

                There’s a long, precious moment of silence and she wonders if she’s supposed to say something.

                “He—Never on the floor. I was—I was nineteen. I think. He told me I was. He told me—”

                She curls her hand into a fist on the floor. Can feel her heart hammering against the floorboards.

                “He told me it was love,” Fenris says, so softly. “I believed him.”

                There’s heat building in the palm of her hand, the humming of the veil at the edge of her hearing. She can make out the blue glow of Fenris’ lyrium, faintly, on the walls of her room.

                “Hawke?” he says.

                She controls the fire. The veil slips away, Fenris’ lyrium fades.

                She’s crying. Crying because she knew this confession was coming, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

                “I’ll kill him,” she breathes, her voice muffled by her own arm.

                Fenris doesn’t say anything.

                “If you don’t—half the world will see him burn. They’ll lock me up forever for it. I don’t care.”

                The silence rings in her ears. Was that the wrong thing to say? She closes her eyes and tries to stifle a sob.

                Then Fenris gets off the bed and she thinks—of course, he’s had enough—and she buries her eyes in her arm.

                But she feels a touch, so light, on her clenched fist, and she turns her head and there he is, lying on his side on the floor, his eyes wide and gleaming and a smile, the smallest of smiles on his perfect lips.

                She stares at him as he runs his fingertips along her clenched knuckles. Then she opens her hand and he twines his fingers in hers. He does not look away from her face.

                “They can try,” he says, his voice thick and low. His thumb drawing slow circles on her hand. “They can try.”

               

Her feet are bare as she walks on the lichen floor of the temple. Above them the cavern falls away and there’s nothing but sunlight pouring in, bright and shining, birds flitting overhead and singing to one another, sweetly. This used to be some sort of courtyard or entry, that much is clear, the lichen giving way in some places to marble stairs, worn down with weather and time, leading up to a massive doorway flanked by twin wolf statues. They’re reclining, ears forward with kind faces, the one on the left covered with the roots of a massive tree. Most of its body has been reduced to rubble but its head is still upright, somehow. Missing one ear, but it looks like it could be folded back, like the playful dog back in clan Lavellan.

                She relaxes the draw on her bow, just a little. Her guard falling.

                Beside her, Solas is stern.

                “It’s beautiful,” she says.

                “Once, perhaps.” He brushes his hand along a tree trunk. “Soon this place will be lost to the ages. I cannot say I will mourn its passing.”

                Something seems to change in his expression. “Come, _Da’assan_ ,” he says. “I have dreamt we will find help with your condition here.”

                The _virabelasan_ whisper in her ears, but she cannot hear them clearly. She bites her lip and follows him up the ancient stairs, Cole trailing behind them.

                “Calling it _my condition_ is a bit generous,” she says, clenching and unclenching her left hand.

                “Those fools in Tevinter destabilized it. Playing with magic they do not understand, and they almost ruined you. Calling it a condition is vague, but surprisingly accurate. If it is not stabilized—”

                “Yeah,” she says. The _virabelasan_ is a loud hum now, but they’re all speaking at once and she can’t make sense of it. “I got it the first time. Don’t need to hear _that_ ever again.”

                He pauses before they reach the top of the stairs. “Let me see,” he says, softly.

                She hesitates.

                “ _Da’assan_.”

                She bites her lip and holds her arm out.

                He pushes back her sleeve and the _virabelasan_ are screaming. She barely sees the lines of green like cracks in stone running all the way up to her elbow, raw power shining through them where blood and bone should be. She closes her eyes against the sight of it, against how dull his fingertips feel against her flesh, against the ravenous screamings of her ancestors.

                They’re trying to warn her, that much is clear. But they’ve been nonsensical at best ever since the Anchor started spreading.

                “We must hurry,” he says.

                “You do care,” she teases through a grimace.

                He rewards her levity with a scowl.

                “ _Hahren_ ,” she says, softly, by way of apology.

                Looking back up at Solas, he is framed by the watchful eyes of one of the wolf statues. Her vision doubles, her heartbeat quickens, and there’s another man standing in Solas’ place, a wicked grin on his face and dark, dark hair down his back.

                The smell of death hits her like a wall and she doubles over, retching, nothing coming out.

                _“Da’assan!_ ”

                His hands on her shoulders, shaking her, healing magic sputtering from his fingers instinctively, directionless, the cause of her distress unclear. He grabs at her left arm but that’s not it, they’re screaming in her head and they won’t stop, and the anchor’s _too bright_ , burning, burning.

                “Not a hurt that can be healed. Showing, shouting, saying nothing, voices raised, walking the way of sorrows and they’re so loud _please make them stop_.”

                She’s dimly aware of Solas clutching her to his chest.

                “Cole,” he says. Why does he sound so frantic? “The _Virabelasan_. Did she drink from the _Virabelasan_?”

                “Yes.”

                Solas’ fingers are hard on her back. His breathing is erratic, shaken.

                “No,” is all he says, slowly. “No.”

                The dream shifts. There’s darkness of night all around them and the voices of her ancestors are screaming in her head. It’s Andruil’s hunt, and the sentinels have a fire going, bright and wild, their kills roasting on them. She sees more than one couple dancing around the flames, and they’re laughing, laughing.

                But all she can hear are stories of Andruil hunting the elves. Mythal allowing it.

                The flowers are glowing and she’s lying in their midst. She has time for the thought that they are the same colour as his eyes before the voices of the _virabelasan_ begin to scream, one over the other, frantic and—

                “ _Da’sahlin_ ,” he says.

                “ _Nadas’lin_.” She feels her cheeks warm at the impetuous nickname even as she uses it in retaliation; it seems childish, now. She wonders when he will stop thinking so little of her. When she will stop rising to the bait. “Why did you follow me out here?”

                He sits next to her. His touch on her forehead is cool and she allows it, closes her eyes and feels his mana pulse over her. It quiets the voices of the well some, but not enough.

                “You have no desire to join in the festivities?”

                She laughs. It feels like something slick and awful in the back of her throat.

                “There’s a bad taste in my mouth,” she says. “Now that I know it’s not boar she used to hunt, makes it a little hard to have fun.”

                His answering laugh is barely more than a hum. “You have been at a crossroads for some time. I understand this has been difficult for you.”

                “At a crossroads,” she repeats, slowly. Is he drawing his thumb along her vallaslin? His touch is so gentle. Her eyelids flicker but she keeps them closed. There’s a warmth building in her body at the feel of his touch, and she doesn’t want it to go away. Doesn’t want him to laugh at her for feeling this way.

                “You are...” his breath hitches. “There has not been one such as you in eons.”

                She can’t help a smirk. “Still regret calling me _shemlen_ when we met?”

                His hand on her _vallaslin_ stills. Her lip trembles, and she bites it, hoping he doesn’t notice.

                “I regret many things,” he says. His voice is thick.

                “Like letting me waste the _virabelasan_? Like letting me stay?”

                She can feel his breath on her lips. “Never that,” he says. “ _Da’sahlin_.”

                It’s different, the way he says it then. It makes her blush for a whole different reason.

                She opens her mouth to tease him, to say _literally anything at all_ , but then his lips are on hers, gentle, slow, and his hands are wandering up to her hair. She grabs at his face with the impatience of her youth and his laugh into her lips makes her heart rattle against her ribs, makes the heat building in her core spark into a flame.

                Her eyes fly open and his gaze is warm, the same shining colour as the flowers around her. The voices of her ancestors filter away, and there is only him, his smile against her lips, no more sorrow lingering at the corners of his eyes.

                The dream is different. She’s sitting against a stone altar in the depths of an ancient temple, and Solas is tinkering with a strange artifact. It looks like a globe.

                “When the veil tears open,” he says, “seal it. I will guide you through it. The mark should stabilize when the rift is closed.”

                “Are you angry?” she asks through the pain in her hand, the echoes of ancient things rattling in her skull.

                He sighs. “ _Da’assan_. We do not have time for this. Your mark is spreading too quickly.”

                Her hand seizes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It was—you’re angry I wasted the Well of Sorrows.”

                He says nothing.

                “It will take a minute for the spell to take effect,” he says. “Ready yourself.”

                “Tell me about her. The woman Cole’s always talking about.”

                She squints through the haze of pain to see his fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose. The straight line of his lips.

                “She wasn’t elvhen like you, was she?”

                His shoulders stiffen. “How did you—?”

                She laughs. “You said you found this place in the Fade,” she says, rolling her head back to get a better look at him. “But you didn’t sleep at all. You were watching me. Cole told me.”

                He exhales. The air feels like it’s vibrating.

                “Was she pretty?”

                He doesn’t look at her. “She was beautiful,” he says, so softly.

                Then the veil rips open.

                She carved the runes into the floor with her magic, and now she lies there, clutching the hole in her chest. Uselessly. The templar who stabbed her is dead but it’s little comfort—her heartbeat feels weak, but frantic somehow. A little suffocating bird in the cage of her ribs.

                She can almost feel her lung filling up with blood. It’s... she laughs. Tries to. Oh, but she had to do this alone, didn’t she? Had to keep everyone she loves out of this mess.

                She thinks of a little elven girl with green eyes. Thinks of tucking a curl behind her ear while she sleeps. That’s what woke her up, that’s what started all the questions—oh, but she doesn’t regret it. That last touch.

                “You’re dying,” says a voice, soft and sullen. “But it’s—but it’s _wrong.”_

                “Cole.” Her voice comes out in a wheeze. She imagines her broken ribs are rattling.

                “He’s coming for you,” he says. “He—he felt you seal her away.”

                “Please,” she says. Tries to. It doesn’t come out quite right. Her mouth isn’t working.

                “Don’t tell her about this,” he murmurs, his cold hand on her forehead. “Tell her she is loved. Sing her to sleep. Kiss the scrapes on her knee to make them better.”

                There’s someone yelling, somewhere far away. Someone familiar. Who is it? She should know that voice, but it’s getting hard to... It’s very dark. Everything’s very far away but the voice of her spirit friend.

                “Never let her go looking for me. Never let her take up my burdens. Let her grow up with a full belly and never alone. Let her be a hunter in the woods forever, child of my heart. Tucking a dark curl behind a pointed ear, her eyes flicker open _mamae, mamae why are you crying_?” His voice falters. “Your blood is in the runes. He knows something’s wrong, but it can’t be more wrong because—he’s holding you now, he’s calling _my heart, my heart,_ and you can’t hear him. Air,” he says, softly. “Air, please, air.”

                Someone is screaming. It’s not her. She’s only thinking _air, please, air,_ and her mouth is moving, moving, and there’s something in her lungs and in her throat but it’s not air, it won’t ever be air again.

 

“Marian!”

                Hawke jerks awake so violently she smacks her head back against the metal rails of the bed.

                She gasps for air, twisting and pulling and someone’s got her hand and she doesn’t know who it is but they’re pulling, pulling, and everything’s so close and tight and she can’t—

                There’s a blue light. The citrus smell of lyrium. A low, frantic voice and a Tevene accent. A hand with a vice grip on her own. _Fenris._

                “Fuck,” she breathes, blinking rapidly. “Holy fuck.”

                “Marian,” he says. Like it’s a relief. “Marian, what—”

                “Where’s my phone,” she says.

                “I—” He frowns. “What?”

                “I need—” She closes her eyes and swallows. That was the wrong thing. The wrong thing to say. “You know what, forget it.”

                Her hands are clenched into fists on either side of her. She’s trying to remember but—her throat closes up, her stomach rolls and she leans forward, feeling a retch building.

               Fenris pulls her up and drags her to the bathroom just down the hall. She tries to walk behind him but she stumbles, and her feet drag on the floor. He leans her up against the toilet without turning on the lights, but the light is pouring from his skin, flickering all along the walls.

                She doesn’t throw up. She clutches the toilet bowl for dear life.

                “What,” he breathes, “was that.”

                She mutters into the toilet.

                “ _Marian_ ,” he says. Low and urgent.

                “You two alright?”

                Hawke looks up. Aevalle is leaning in the door to the bathroom, her eyes reflecting the light from Fenris’ skin in wide, frightened circles. Her hair is a mess of bed head, a single dark curl of it resting just in front of a pointed ear.

                Hawke sees double. She throws up in the toilet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't gonna leave you guys in the kitchen like that :)
> 
> Yes that thing with the bed was literally the reason they smoked elfroot in the previous chapter. Don't judge me.
> 
> [Hawke and Fenris are apparently doomed to sleep on the floor next to each other while perfectly good beds lie empty](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3639087/chapters/8161005) for the rest of time, silly children.


	33. New Message from Unknown Number

_New Message from Unknown Number_

-{ On dhea’him Da’sahlin

-{ Savhalla

-{ And such

-{ Now explain this thing to me

-{ I don’t like it

                _New Contact Saved: Nadas’lin_

                -{ You woo me with your sweet and gentle poetry

                -{ Nadas’lin I can’t believe you finally got a phone!

-{ Yes laugh all you like

-{ I am too desperate for your attentions to go  
    without hearing from you for mere months

-{ A blink in the eye compared to my overall  
    lifespan

                -{ I miss you too

-{ What does this symbol in the corner mean?

                -{ What symbol in what corner?

-{ >:(

-{ It opened up a menu

-{ I couldn’t get out of it until I sent one of the  
   strange faces

-{ You have not responded for a while

-{ Is that bad

                -{ I’m sorry I’m dying

-{ That useless shemlen

-{ I gave him explicit instructions

-{ I’m on my way

-{ Try not to die until I get there

-{ In three days

                -{ Of laughter! Laughter!

                -{ There was a joke implied there

-{ That is hardly something to make light of

-{ Given recent events

                -{ You just texted me the grumpiest emoticon

                -{ I’m sorry but it was perfect

-{ What’s an emoticon?

                -{ We’ll make a modern man out of you yet

                -{ Don’t worry

-{ You still haven’t explained the emoticon

                -{ They don’t really suit you, so don’t worry about it!

-{ Is this how modern shemlen express complex  
    emotions?

-{ I see how it could be useful in written form  
   conversations

-{ ;)

-{ Look, there’s a winking one

-{ For when you’re joking

-{ So you don’t give me a fright with your terrible  
    sense of humour

                -{ Andruil’s tits

                -{ You are such an old man sometimes

-{ Da’sahlin I am completely serious

                -{ Fine I’ll use the winky face next time

                -{ Oh hang on Varric wants to talk to you

-{ Who is Varric and why should I care?

                -{ He’s my friend! He’s a dwarf

-{ Why does he want to talk to me?

-{ Why are your friends so interested in me?

-{ What are you telling them?

                -{ Why hello mysterious and apparently handsome-  
                   thighed secret boyfriend

-{ On dhea’him, durgen’len

                -{ Yeah I don’t know what that means

-{ What you said makes about as much sense to me.

                -{  Fair

                -{ Alright Happy I have a number of very important  
                    questions for you

-{ I am called Abelas

                -{ Not by me you’re not

                -{ I really need to know if Bluebird has any weird kinks

                -{ I have a lot of money on sex outdoors

-{ Bluebird?

                -{ It’s Aevalle’s nickname, keep up Happy

                -{ Looks like I lost you for a minute there?

-{ I am an important person

-{ I have other things to do than waste my time  
    with you

                -{ Okay maybe the sex ones are too personal

                -{ I get it

                -{ How did you two meet?

                -{ My friend here has money on “Awkward family function”

                -{ But I’m partial to “we had to work together and hated  
                  each other until we realised it was love”

                -{ So? Which is it?

-{ You have a very active imagination

                -{ I do my best

-{ I suppose the second one is close enough to the truth

                -{ I like you Happy

                -{ I can already tell we’re going to be good friends

-{ Why should I be friends with you

-{ Explain what I get out of it

                -{ Bluebird says you have to

-{ She says no such thing

                -{ She sure does

                -{ “Varric make sure you tell my honeybunch to behave”

                -{ Words from her own mouth

-{ Honeybunch

                -{ Or whatever it is you call each other

-{ Give the phone back to her

                -{ Yes yes

                -{ Talk to you again soon Happy

                -{ Were you playing nice with the other kids?

-{ You did not call me honeybunch

                -{ What? Ew. No.

-{ Good

                -{ What did you say to him?

                -{ He and Dorian are arguing semantics

-{ I don’t know why I’m asking you this but Dorian is?

                -{ The guy you tried to intimidate outside my apartment

-{ Ah yes

-{ The Tevinter

-{ I continue to question your choice in friends

                -{ Don’t worry other people say the same thing about you

-{ Dorian wants to talk to you

-{ Don’t give him the phone

-{ Da’sahlin?

                -{ Sadly, I am not your adorable elven girlfriend

-{ On dhea’him, shemlen

                -{ And good afternoon to you too!

-{ You speak elven?

                -{ Not at all

                -{ I just asked Aevalle what that meant

                -{ So my dwarven friend and I are having a bit of an argument  
                    about a bet you recently agreed to settle

                -{ I see here you said it was close enough to the truth

                -{ But I would like some clarification

-{ Getting this phone was a mistake

                -{ Don’t worry my friend everyone says that at first

                -{ Next thing you know you’ll be playing a game about  
                  matching cartoon candy and you haven’t slept in  
                  three days

-{ That sounds unpleasant

                -{ Most things are

                -{ Now Bull wants to talk to you

-{ Who is Bull

-{ Give her back her phone I did not text her to talk  
    to her friends

                -{ So you’re Abelas?

-{ On dhea’him, Bull

-{ Yes I am called Abelas

-{ Please pass the phone back to the one you call  
    Aevalle

-{ I am growing tired of this

                -{ The one we call Aevalle?

                -{ Interesting.

-{ I will not answer any questions on the subject

                -{ So, explain the flower to me.

-{ No

                -{ Please?

-{ Absolutely not

                -{ What is with that girl and her collection of grumpy elven  
                   men?

                -{ Oh wait Fenris wants the phone

-{ Of course he does

                -{ If you hurt aevalle or hawke I will kill you

-{ It would be amusing to watch you try

                -{ What are your plans with aevalle

                -{ Why are you supposed to take her with you

-{ Excuse me while I find the correct emoticon to  
    express my feelings on this matter

-{ There are many choices and I would like to get this  
    right

                -{ Vishante kaffas

-{ How strange there are none with the middle finger  
    extended

-{ I understood that to be a common shemlen  
   gesture appropriate to the situation

                -{ Wow look at you two making friends!!

                -{ ;)

-{ Who is it now?

-{ I am unclear as to the joke in this situation

                -{ Oh no joke, kitten!!!

                -{ Just something suggestive

                -{ ;)

-{ Who is this

                -{ I’m shocked!

                -{ But I suppose Aevalle never introduced us, did she?

                -{ We’ve met, briefly

                -{ I’m Isabela and me and my girlfriend are currently  
                   sleeping with your girlfriend

-{ Ah

-{ She did mention you

                -{ Did she now????

                -{ I’m flattered!!

-{ You should be

-{ She’s a remarkable woman

-{ You are fortunate to have caught her attention

                -{ Aww how sweet

                -{ I’m going to tell her you said that

                -{ To be fair though it’s Merrill who gets the most of her  
                   attention

                -{ I’m just along for the ride

                -{ Repeatedly

                -{ In as many ways as you can imagine

                -{ Should I elaborate?

-{ Go on

                -{ I knew I liked you

                -{ ;)

                -{ Now they’ve had a bit of a fight so I suppose we’re not  
                    doing anything currently

                -{ Which is a shame

                -{ But these fights never last forever so I thought I’d take  
                   the opportunity to work out a little bit of an arrangement

-{ Arrangement?

                -{ First let me send you a bit of a picture so you know  
                    what you could be getting yourself into

                -{ As long as Aevalle approves, of course

                -{ I’ve pitched it before but I’ve never gotten a solid yes  
                    or no out of her

                -{ So maybe you can hurry the process along, hm?

_Sent (1) image attachment_

-{ This is just a picture of breasts

-{ In terrible lighting

-{ Are these even yours?

-{ Is that a piercing?

                -{ Oh shit Aevalle’s seen me

                -{ There’s only so long I can stand on a chair and hold this  
                     over her head

                -{ I’m sending you my contact info

                -{ Don’t be a stranger, kitten

_Sent Contact Card: Isabela_

                -{ ;)

                -{ Elgar’nan

                -{ I had to chase her around the entire house

                -{ What did she text you?

-{ I believe you can see for yourself

                -{ Oh

                -{ Um

                -{ I can explain

-{ Da’sahlin if it pleases you then I will consider it

                -{ What

                -{ Really?

                -{ You’re serious?

-{ Do you see a winking face?

                -{ Haha wow

                -{ Nadas’lin

-{ Why are you and the Dalish girl fighting?

                -{ It’s probably better if you don’t know

-{ Are you about to do something reckless again?

                -{ I

                -{ Yes

-{ Da’sahlin

                -{ I’m sorry I just

                -{ I can’t

                -{ Ugh

-{ Find somewhere quiet

-{ I will call you

                -{ Oh I can’t

                -{ How much is this costing you?

-{ I bought an extensive international voice and  
    text package

-{ Don’t worry

-{ Let me know when you’re somewhere alone

                -{ Alright I’m ready

 

_Incoming Call from Nadas’lin_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On dhea’him - Good afternoon  
> Savhalla - Greetings  
> (both from project elvhen)  
> \---
> 
> So yeah I thought we could all use a quick break from the angst train. And people wanted to see more of Abelas but he's off doing sentinel-related nonsense somewhere not in Kirkwall so this is the next best thing?
> 
> As to where they all are who even knows, probably at Hawke's place or something. And Fenris is suddenly capitalizing some of his words because he's using Aevalle's phone and she has autocorrect on.
> 
> Anyway back to your regularly scheduled angst next chapter


	34. New Wisdom of the Ancient Ways

She is wearing a dress with no back as she leans on the balcony railing, looking over the lights of Halamshiral, straining to hear the sounds of the parties she knows will start up soon among the city elves. There is still the music inside the grand building behind her, slow and jazzy and it irks at her because it doesn’t belong _here_ , it’s been watered down and passed around like a fine wine; not for the consumption of the broken backs spent crafting it.

                She can catch broken threads of conversation trailing out from the people gathered inside. _For a savage to dance so beautifully! To play the Game with such cunning! But did you see her back? Marvellous. I’d like to have that done on my girl._

                A breeze catches the fine sweat on her back, and she can almost feel the lines of Mythal’stree that run up her spine, curl at the back of her neck, spread out across and over her shoulders. She closes her eyes and allows herself a moment of rage, alone. For herself, tonight. Tomorrow, for the blood of the elves slaughtered here in the name of the Game. If she feels rage for them now, she’ll raze the palace to the ground.

                A delicate silverite wolf mask hangs in her fingers. She contemplates dropping it from the balcony, letting it land in the gardens somewhere—but they will call her back to the party soon. Her hiding place will not be left undiscovered too long.

                “Aevalle,” he says, and she turns her head. She can feel the marvellous piercings they’ve done her ears up in dangle with her movement, and she wants to rip them all off.

                But Solas is there, leaning against the doorway, and his eyes are lingering on her exposed back. There is something in her expression that makes her forget the piercings, the music, and she feels warm when his gaze rises to meet hers.

                “Before the band stops playing,” he says in a low, gentle voice, and his stormcloud eyes do not waver from hers when she takes his hand.

                The band does stop playing; they stop dancing, but he does not let her go.

                “Run away with me,” she whispers. “ _Vhenan,_ let’s just go.”

                His laugh is low and gentle. “And where will we run when our enemy achieves his goals?” he murmurs into her ear. His breath is hot on her skin.

                “Let him have it.” She doesn’t mean it, not for a second, and he knows it. But when she says, “I have you. I need nothing else,” she does, with her whole being, mean every word of it, everything it implies.

                She’s pressed so close to him that she can hear his heart beating in his chest.

                “ _Vhenan_.”

                She rests her head on his chest. “ _Dirtha’sal_ ,” she whispers.

                He laughs, low and soft, but he obeys. “ _Vhenan_ ,” he says again, and she listens to his intake of breath, the rumble in his chest as he speaks. She closes her eyes and smiles— _for her_ , she thinks. They might dress him up and call him her _elven assistant_ all they like, but this is the one wild thing they cannot pin and tuck and fold away, dress in fine clothing and market like a hair cream in a tinny radio advert. The way he says _my heart_ , the way she feels safely tucked in his embrace, listening to his heart and feeling the warmth of him against her skin—this is something that belongs to her and no other, and they can’t take it from her.

                Standing in a glade, under statues for Ghilan’nain, her hands in his, he tells her the awful truth and says—“I know a spell. I could remove it, if you like.” She doesn’t like, she doesn’t know--

                She thinks nothing could ever be worse than _you are branded property so called free elf_ , but then he says, “In another world,” and all she has left is what was carved into her skin, the pride of what the lines tell the world tainted by new wisdom of the ancient ways.

 

“Hawke,” Merrill is saying.

                Hawke jerks awake—had rested her head on her arm for _two goddamn seconds_ —and blinks, rapidly, at her surroundings. Cassandra’s truck—back seat. Crammed in next to Merrill and Isabela. Cassandra driving, Bull and Dorian crammed onto the front bench, both of them giving her a _look_.

                Merrill’s hand is on her shoulder—she retracts her touch when Hawke frowns down at it, her eyes wide with confusion.

                “You were—you were having a terrible dream,” Merrill says. “You were talking in your sleep.”

                Her heart’s hammering. “I—” she blinks again. “It’s nothing,” she says, slowly. “Just uh—weird shit.”

                “Sounds like someone’s just met a very persuasive Desire demon,” Dorian says. His smile is lopsided and easy, but there’s something scrutinizing about the corners of his eyes so she avoids his gaze. “In all fairness, you look wretched. Have you been sleeping at all lately?”

                “I don’t think we’re here to talk about me,” Hawke says. She thinks about pulling out her phone and trying to record what she dreamed about, but she tries to remember _anything_ and she can’t—just a feeling of indescribable loss.

                “You said _vhenan_ ,” Merrill says, softly.

                “Huh?”

                “It means _the place my heart dwells_.”

                Up front, Cassandra sighs wistfully.

                “Are you learning Elven, Hawke?” Bull asks, his eyes narrowed. He moves his head in an attempt to get a better look at her, and his horns scrape along the roof of the truck. “I didn’t think that was your thing.”

                “Or Fenris’ thing,” Dorian adds, smirking.

                Hawke tries to make herself as small as possible in the seat. _Oh no_ , she thinks. _Here we go_.

                “I’m sure I didn’t,” Hawke says, crossing her arms over her chest. She looks out the window, trying her best to ignore Merrill’s questioning gaze. There’re only farmers’ fields, long stretches of dry, brown grass and withered trees as far as the eye can see.

                “I know what I heard,” Merrill says. “Hawke, is something wrong? You’ve been acting very strange since—”

                “Kitten,” Isabela says, “I don’t think she wants to talk about it.”

                Merrill brushes her off. “Hawke,” she says, “we fought the Bringer of Nightmares. If you’re having strange dreams and talking in Elven, it might be related.”

                Hawke doesn’t respond.

                “Fine,” Merrill says. “Ignore me when I offer to help. See where that gets you.”

                “Kitten,” Isabela says, urgently.

                “I’m not stupid,” Merrill says, and Hawke looks at her. “I know you all think it. You think I’m too sweet and innocent for my own good, that I need to be protected from everything—” She exhales and clenches her jaw. “I know this will not end well,” she says, calmer. “I know that. But I also know that I have to do this. And it’s a Keeper’s job to protect her clan from Fen’harel—and I was training to be one. So if your nightmares are from the Dread Wolf, Hawke, then maybe I could help you with it. If you bothered to ask.”

                The truck slows to a stop. “Merrill,” Cassandra says.

                “What.”

                Cassandra meets Merrill’s narrowed gaze without flinching. “There is a gate blocking the road,” she says, calmly. “Two Dalish are sitting on it.”

                Hawke leans around Cassandra’s seat to get a better look. Up ahead the road leads into a forest of small, shrivelled trees. She can make out the shape of Sundermount rising above it but not the mountain’s speak, its form hazy in the heat of the day. There’s two Dalish sitting on the fence—one of them has a hunting rifle hanging loosely in her hands, and the other is wiping down the barrel of a shotgun with a filthy rag. They’re dressed in worn, well-patched clothing that doesn’t quite fit right, broad hats and thick scarves protecting them from the heat and the dust blowing up from the road in the wind.

                “Let me out,” Merrill says. Isabela opens her door and Merrill climbs out of the truck after her.

                “Stay here,” Merrill tells them, pulling her own scarf closer about her neck. She squints uncomfortably in the sunlight—she’s so pale, for the middle of summer. Spending too much time at home with her mirror, in the dark.

                She walks up the dirt road, alone, and Hawke climbs out of the truck. She stands next to Isabela, awkwardly, her hands jammed into the pockets of her denim shorts.

                “We should have brought Aevalle,” Hawke says. “Or Fenris.”

                Isabela tosses her hair, but keeps her eyes on the Dalish ahead. “Fenris coming to let loose an ancient spirit so we can unlock ancient elven magic? Yes, that sounds like something he’d agree to.”

                Hawke glances at the truck. “Yeah, but right now we have four humans and a qunari coming along with Merrill. Might have looked a bit better to have _any_ elf with us.”

                Isabela sighs. “I know,” she says. “But Kitten wouldn’t let me tell Aevalle.”

               “That’s far enough,” the woman with the rifle says. Merrill stops, her hands clenched into fists on either side of her.

                “Why have you come?” she asks, getting off the fence. She does not threaten Merrill with the gun, but she holds it ready. “Bringing _shemlen_ and qunari. Have you come to wage war with us?”

                Merrill takes a single, steady breath. “I am headed to Sundermount,” she tells them. “I request safe passage through the clan’s lands for myself and my friends, both ways. I take responsibility for them and I will ensure they do no harm to Sabrae and its people.”

                “How formal,” is her only reply. She gestures to her partner and he climbs off the gate to open it.

                “Keeper Marethari is expecting you,” she continues. “She said to let you through when you came.”

                They climb back in the car. Hawke spares a glance back to the road behind them—and there, inexplicably, is Cole, standing in the bed of the truck, looking ahead with that vacant expression of his. Has he been there the whole time?

                “Yes,” he says softly, and Hawke bites her lip. Then he says, “No,” before the question has even formed in her mind.

                She slams the door behind her after she gets in. _Will this end well_?

                It’s only another twenty minutes’ drive before they reach the clan proper. Hawke has only seen Dalish clans in storybooks, textbooks that drone on about how secluded these wild elves are from the rest of society. Wooden landships, halla bleating, some half-demon looking Keeper weaving magic at a fire.

                What she sees instead is a collection of dirt roads and broken-down trailers, old cars with parts falling off and suspicious-eyed, _vallaslin_ -covered elves. Ahead, children kick a ball towards each other across the road, laughing, but before they can get close the children are ferreted away by parents and older siblings. There’s a pen with some halla at the end of the road, just a few of them, and Hawke can count their ribs beneath their thinning fur, more grey than white.

                An old, white-haired elven woman stands at the edge of the camp, just off to the side of the road. She watches them go with sad, tired eyes.

                “Keep driving,” Merrill says.

                They drive for another hour before Merrill tells them to pull over.

                “Can’t drive up this path,” she says. “We’ll have to hike the rest.”

                If anyone’s surprised to see Cole climb out of the truck’s bed, no one says anything. Hawke thinks for a moment that he will walk beside Cassandra and engage in easy conversation with her, as normal, but he falls in step just behind Merrill, just over her shoulder, and the way he’s looking at the back of her head makes something crawl up Hawke’s spine.

                Bull’s only just gotten out of the truck when Cassandra, looking back, says, “I think we’re being followed.”

                “Then we’ll have to hurry,” Merrill says, already walking up the narrow path that leads up the mountain—little more than a game trail, no space for more than one person to walk.

                “We can’t let them stop us,” Cole says. “I’m doing this for them— _but she already has_.”

                Merrill freezes mid step.

                “Cold stone, bare toes. _Da’len_ , a chant, a prayer, a blessing—Keep them from going off the path _but how far she’s wandered_ , this is the smallest of gestures, the smallest atonement, to look upon Audacity’s prison and attempt to make right what I have wronged through inaction.”

                Merrill speaks so softly that Hawke doesn’t hear her.

                Cole hesitates.

                Merrill says it again. “What did she do?” Low and dark and wrecked.

                “I’m sorry,” he says. “She loves you.”

                “ _What did she do?_ ” Merrill screams. Isabela catches her as she falls to her knees.

 

“This isn’t the way to Dorian’s apartment,” Hawke says. Sprawled out in the backseat of Cassandra’s truck, watching the streetlights pass them by and ignoring Dorian’s knee knocking against her feet, trying to push them off the seat. They’ve just left the alienage district proper and now they’re driving through that strange middle ground between it and the rest of Lowtown—all high rises, none of them well kept. Not a tree or a park in sight, and Fenris and Aevalle’s building just around the corner.

                “It’s not,” Cassandra agrees, rounding that corner.

                No one says anything as they pull up to the front door.

                “I think this qualifies as meddling,” Hawke says when she can’t stand the silence any longer.

                “It certainly does,” Dorian agrees. “But we barely got out of that fight alive and it would have been _extremely_ useful to have Fenris and Aevalle around. Normally I’m all for giving people their space but not when we almost get killed over it.”

                Bull turns in his seat and looks at Dorian with a patient smile. Something unspoken passes between them before Dorian rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

                “I think,” Bull says, softly, turning his gaze to Hawke, “that Merrill needs someone Dalish right now. And more importantly, the people who love her.”

                Hawke bites her lip. _I will take responsibility_ , she’d said, when Merrill was too stunned to do or say a damned thing. Meeting that Dalish Hunter’s gaze and knowing, _knowing_ that one wrong word meant a fight they couldn’t walk away from, and even exhausted as they were from the fight with Audacity Merrill’s clan had eyes dark from hunger, knobbed knuckles from too much work and not enough food. It would have been slaughter, but Hawke had seen that look in Aevalle’s eyes when she was backed into a corner, had seen her take a knife to her arm to deflect it, to kill a man.

                The look in Merrill’s eyes had been utter shock and betrayal. But they had walked away without any more blood spilled, hadn’t they? Then why did she feel like such an ass?

                “I’ll call her,” Hawke says, her mouth dry.

                It takes a few rings for Aevalle to pick up. “Hawke?” she asks, half-asleep. “What—it’s the middle of the night. Cole—Cole _hush_ , I’m on the phone.”

                Hawke glances through the back window at the empty truck bed. How did he even get up there that fast...

“It’s Merrill,” Hawke says. “She needs you.”

 

The knock to the door of Merrill’s apartment is soft, tentative.

                Merrill doesn’t move, hasn’t moved since they got there. She’s sitting on the floor in front of the eluvian, her knees tucked up to her chest and the rest of her curled as tight around them as she can. Not moving. Not saying or doing anything, and not a damn thing Isabela is saying or doing is changing that.

                _She won’t even let me touch her_. Isabela tries to be still, to figure out what Merrill wants in this mourning state of hers, but she doesn’t have a clue and Merrill won’t budge an inch.

                The person outside the door knocks again, louder. Again, Merrill doesn’t move.

                Just as Isabela stands to let them in, Aevalle’s voice drifts from the other side of the door. “ _Ma falon_. It’s me.”

                Isabela doesn’t think it’s possible, but Merrill seems to curl in even tighter about herself.

                “Please, open the door.”

                Nobody moves. Isabela is barely breathing.

                Just when she thinks the silence is unbearable, Merrill draws herself up off the floor—slowly, as if she’s grown roots. The only sound she makes as she moves are the creaking of her joints, too long compressed, and the scraping of her calloused feet on the linoleum floor as she walks toward the door.

                She hesitates before she opens it, leaving the chain on.

                Isabela can see Aevalle through the crack in the door—wearing one of Fenris’ old shirts that shrunk in the wash and a pair of shorts that don’t match. She’s dressed in a hurry, and her hair is an unmanaged, tangled mess falling over her shoulder. But her eyes are bright and wide and full of sorrow.

                “Merrill,” she says.

                “Did you come here to laugh at me?” Merrill says. “To tell me you were right?”

                “Never that,” Aevalle whispers.

                “Then why are you here?”

                Merrill’s voice is flat, even. Rough from crying at Sundermount, and saying not a word since.

                Aevalle looks like she’s trying to say something but she can’t.

                Merrill goes to close to door, and Aevalle blurts, “ _Mana_ ,” softly.

                She waits. Aevalle curls her hand on the door and opens and closes her mouth, her face twisting.

                “ _Tel’ela’ar_ ,” she whispers. “I can’t—Merrill I can’t say it. It scares me too much, because then it’s _real_ and—and I can’t lose you, too. But— _re’nadas_ , _Lethallan_. And I can’t stand it. And then Hawke called me and I thought— _I thought I’d lost you_. And I hadn’t said it. And I’m standing here rambling and I still can’t.”

                Merrill closes her eyes and rests her head against the door.

                “ _Ir abelas,_ ” Aevalle says, her voice low and soft. “That’s what I came here to say. _Ir abelas_.”

                Merrill closes the door and removes the chain, then opens it again. She and Aevalle stare at each other for a long, painful moment, and then Merrill inhales, sharply, and she starts crying all over again as Aevalle rushes to hold her, to keep her from crumpling to the floor. They stumble backwards with Aevalle’s momentum and their frantic need to hold one another until Bela catches them, bows her head to Merrill’s neck and kisses it, gentle, loving.

                They lower Merrill to the floor gently and they stay there, holding her, and Bela listens as Aevalle comforts her in Elven, her words low and humming and whispered so gently into Merrill’s hair as Merrill sobs, sobs.

 

Isabela wakes to the sound of rain hitting the only window in Merrill’s apartment and a cold, empty bed around her. She frowns and turns over, squinting into the dim light of the apartment until she sees Aevalle lying on the floor in front of the eluvian, asleep, her head resting in Merrill’s lap. Merrill’s head is bowed and she is drawing the fingers of her right hand along Aevalle’s _vallaslin_ and her left along the edge of her ear, so gently, her expression twisted with worry.

                They stay like that for—hours, maybe? The light doesn’t change at all outside, the sky thick with dark clouds bringing much needed rain to the city. Isabela watches, takes note of Merrill’s red eyes and how they watch every movement of Aevalle’s face with frantic, desperate worry.

                Then Aevalle stirs and opens her eyes, slowly.

                Merrill opens her mouth to say something, but she can’t seem to get it out.

                Aevalle smiles. She lifts a hand to Merrill’s on her cheek and twines their fingers together. She murmurs something comforting in elven, light and sweet, and Merrill’s tear-streaked face breaks into a smile, real and relieved. She bows and kisses Aevalle’s lips, desperately, and Aevalle laughs low and gentle in her throat as she responds in kind.

                They help each other to their feet and hold hands as they stand before the mirror. Aevalle takes a moment to adjust her clothing, one-handed, and then she presses her left hand to the surface of the mirror. She leans forward and whispers something that Isabela can’t hear.

                The surface of the mirror begins to shine—hazy, slow, and Isabela blinks and there’s a strange pattern drawing across its surface, something like ripples reflecting off water _but not quite,_ it’s just a little different.

                Isabela opens her mouth to ask what her doing, and Merrill steps _through_ the mirror, Aevalle following behind her, their hands clasped tight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mana - Wait  
> Tel'ela'ar - I can't. Sentence fragment. Parsed from Project Elvhen  
> Re'nedas - It's inevitable. Parsed from Project Elvhen
> 
> \--
> 
> Oops I tripped and there's more adorable elf girl angst
> 
> Oh hey normally I do an update every 3 days and I didn't this time? Sorry about that team. Been playing too much Dishonoured and now my buffer is gone WHOOPS So if updates are a bit slower it's because I have no self control


	35. What They Overheard

This is the fourth night in a row that she’s screamed the whole night through.

               She and Mamae have been given an _aravel_ all to themselves, now. She feels lonely at night, which is making the dreams worse— _she thinks_. For some reason she doesn’t remember any of her night spent screaming, screaming, but she knows she had them, like she knows there’s air but can’t see it.

               She feels more exhausted when she wakes; there’s too much space all around her and the night is cold without the press of bodies all piled together in their wooden homes. Mamae clutches her tight all night; when she wakes gasping and begging and startled to silence Mamae is crushing her to her chest, voice hoarse from whispering and singing in elven all night long. The circles under Mamae’s eyes are darker than her own, and her hands shake as she is held.

               _“Emm’asha,_ ” Mamae murmurs, relieved every time she wakes.

               The Keeper is sitting with her in the aravel, and the setting sun is shining through but she doesn’t want to go out and play with her friends. Veris tells her the Dread Wolf is coming for her, that’s why she screams all night. Emren always smacks the side of his head and they fight in the dirt over it, clawing and yelling, but she knows Veris must be right and that the rest of the clan knows it too and _she’s so scared_.

               “ _Da’len_ ,” the Keeper says, still holding out the wooden cup. “Drink this. It will stop your dreaming.”

               Her knees are pulled up to her chest. She shakes her head, fiercely. Her eyes are glued to the figure of Mamae, standing just near the trees. She’s speaking with someone, but every time she looks at this person her gaze seems to slip from them. She’s having trouble remembering what they look like, what they’re saying, but Mamae looks so frightened—

               “No,” Mamae is saying. “Cole it’s not—it’s not true.”

               The other person says something— _what is it_?

               Mamae presses her hands to her face—her eyes are wide her hands are shaking, shaking.

               She thinks she should be angry at this person for hurting mother, but she can’t quite get a grasp on the feeling—there’s some soothing voice at the back of her mind, reassuring her, _Mamae is strong, da’len, Mamae will protect you_ , and she’s having a hard time ignoring it, figuring out where it’s coming from.

               _Drink the tea_ , the voice tells her, and her hands reach for the cup the Keeper offers.

               She wakes briefly, dizzy, dozing,not dreaming but everything’s _distant,_ and there is only firelight outside.

               “There has not been a _somniari_ among the Dalish for... ages uncounted,” the Keeper is saying. Her tone skeptical, concerned. “Are you certain?”

               Mamae is wringing her hands, over and over. “I... my source is reliable.”

               The Keeper sighs. “Another mage to hide. That’s the fifth! _Elgar’nan_ , I’m at my wit’s end. The Templars are due to line us up and count us like lambs for the slaughter, _lethallan_. How can I keep them at bay when she screams bloody murder all through the night?”

               “There’s a demon stalking her dreams,” Mamae says. “A powerful one.”

               The Keeper stills. Something like understanding passes over her features. “One from your past?”

               The veil crackles about Mamae for a moment—she can feel it only distantly. But then Mamae closes her eyes and clenches her left hand into a fist, and the electricity in the air is gone. “Yes,” she says, barely a whisper. Then, “Buy me as much time as you can, Deshanna, please. I can’t lose her to this.”

               _She doesn’t want you to worry about this_ , the friendly voice tells her, and she falls asleep again.

               It’s summer in Tevinter and _fuck it’s hot_ , she hasn’t seen a summer this hot since her days with clan Lavellan. The elf taking point holds up his hand and she waits, patiently, listening to the soft patter of bare feet on tile floor. A child, she thinks, but she’s the only one who relaxes her grip on her weapon.

               When they slip around the corner and down the hall, she hesitates at an open balcony.

               There’s a small elven boy sitting on the railing, swinging his legs and staring up at the stars. She can’t see his expression from where she’s standing, but she can make out his sun-darkened skin, his pale hair stirring in the gentle breeze.  But she can see him turn his head and stick his tongue out, trying to taste something on the air.

               She bites her lip and _smiles_. Has to resist the urge to tell him— _honey from the bees on the roof, peaches and almonds from the trees in the field, orchids in the garden._ She feels like it’s been an eternity since she’s seen a child at play, and the sight is stirring something deep in her heart that is unfamiliar, but warm. She is tempted to allow herself a moment’s indulgence, a brief fantasy. His eyes, her nose.

               She must linger too long, because the boy decides to come off the railing—but he slips, and her heart must jump out of her chest because it lurches so suddenly, and she’s frozen in place, watching his tawny hands gripping the railing, white-knuckled.

               Still, she hesitates. For a single sickening heartbeat she thinks of her mission, of how important it is they’re not discovered.

               But his hands start to slip again and she’s there, grabbing his wrist before he can fall, and she’s whispering sweet things like _it’s alright, da’len, I’ve got you_ , over and over—

               “My name is Leto,” he tells her. His eyes are wide and so very green.

               She smiles. He’s alright after all, she thinks, no worse for the wear. Not even looking frightened any longer. “Leto,” she says. “I have to go now, Leto, so promise me you will go back to bed and be good from now on.”

               He frowns. “Yes, Mistress.”

               Oh, that hurts. She opens her mouth on instinct, _never again shall we submit_ , but there’s a moment where he looks frightened by her reaction, so she kisses his forehead instead, to show she’s not upset.

               “My name is Evanura,” she tells him. “Now, back to bed, or the Dread Wolf will eat you up!” She punctuates her sentence by tapping him on the nose, playfully. And then she whirls up and through the balcony door, long and quick strides carrying her down the hall, toward where her allies wait, impatience on their faces.

               The Fade shifts and Hawke is somewhere else, somewhere with buzzing, too-bright lights—the basement of the police station in Kirkwall. The holding cell is overcrowded, hot for the number of bodies pressed into it even though it’s pouring rain outside. They didn’t put her in with elves, they put her in with mostly shems, men with wandering eyes and wicked grins. She’s sure they would try something if there wasn’t a templar leaning against the far wall, in his clean pressed suit and shades over his eyes in an attempt to cover up the fact that he’s nodding off. The only reason he’s intimidating is the pin on his lapel, a sword wreathed in flames.

               She’s been in here long enough for the whiskey to wear off, and to start regretting letting that shem cop break her nose. It’s stopped leaking blood and pus but it hurts like a bitch. The smiling shem who tried to help her is in another holding cell, trying to get her attention by waggling his eyebrows. She’s busy ignoring him.

               In the cell with all the elves there’s a boy—he can’t be older than fifteen—speaking with a girl about his age, their expressions hard but fear written in every crack in the mask they’re keeping up. They both have very green eyes, and she can’t bear to look at them.

               There are gunshots, and the templar has two bullet holes in his head before he even touches it. He wavers in place, eyes vacant, until he falls forward, as if a breeze has blown him over.

               Five men come down the stairs, speaking rapidly to each other in Tevene, and Hawke’s blood runs cold.

               The man in charge approaches the cell with all the elves first— _no_ , she thinks, panicking, _not again_ —and he scans their faces, scowling. A few of them look frightened—she knows the glances they send to one another. Confused. She’s heard the same rumours they have about what happens to elves who are arrested for petty crimes, but none of them account for the corpse of that templar in the corner.

               The siblings—they must be siblings—are holding hands. The boy moves in front of the girl as if he will protect her.

               She glances over the man and his followers. She thinks he is the only mage for certain—the others all carry guns, and a few have bloodied knuckles. They speak briefly in Tevene to one another while the man scans the faces of the assembled elves. Looking in between the broad shoulders of the shems that surround her, it would be easy to hide. They still haven’t seen her.

               The mage says something with finality, and one of the men unlocks the door.

               Her mouth feels dry and her heart races against her ribs. She’s watching the elves shift, watching the older men and women shove the younger behind them, their eyes hard with the knowledge of the fight that will come. She loses sight of the children with green eyes, and she thinks, _fuck_.

               She holds her left hand before her and wills the anchor to spark, bright and dazzling and brilliant, and the shems around her panic, piling as far away from her as the cramped confines of the cell allow. The ‘Vints whirl, wide-eyed.

               She still hasn’t learned her lesson, apparently. Her heart’s hammering in her chest and her right hand is clenched by her side to disguise it’s shaking, but her voice is calm when she says, “I believe you’re looking for me, _shemlen_.”

               They open her cell, and with a blur and a fade step the helpful shem is out of his holding cell, a fist full of ice bearing down on the Tevinter mage, grinning like mad.

 

“I'm coming with you,” Aevalle says as she accepts her coffee from the barista.

               Fenris balks. “No,” he says, “it's too risky.” Quietly, because they’re in public, which he suspects is her reasoning behind having this conversation in a busy coffee shop instead of somewhere he can pace and yell and scream and rage.

               But he knows. He knows by the set of her mouth that even if they were alone there would be no argument in this. Even if he forbids it, she is coming.

               “Who else?” She asks, slowly. She sips her coffee as she sits at a table, and Fenris looks sullen about it but he sits across from her.

               “Varric insists,” he answers. 

               Aevalle scowls. “I'm glad he's being supportive, but we can't sneak Bianca into a bar.”

               “It's the Hanged Man,” Fenris says.

               She actually smiles at that. 

               “And you can't bring your bow either,” he continues.

               Her glare is answer enough.

               “We could take Bull,” she says. “He's a spy, so...”

               “He stands out too much,” says Fenris. “If we need to make a quick escape.” Or start killing people, he thinks, but does not say. 

               “Isabela? Or Cassandra?”

               He thinks on it. “Possibly.” His first instinct is to bring as few people as possible, but Isabela is used to fighting without weapons, in close quarters, and although she will tease him mercilessly he does not think he will mind it too much. Cassandra is reliable, however, and anyone who can shrug off half the hits she took from that dragon all those months ago is an asset in any fight.

               “Dorian? Merrill?”

               He bristles at both suggestions. “No.”

               “Well we need a Mage.”

               He doesn't meet her stare. “No,” he says again, softly. 

               “Fenris.”

               Both their phones vibrate. Fenris pulls his out of his pocket immediately, glad for the distraction from the conversation he doesn't want to be having.

               “Lethallin,” she says, ignoring hers.

-{ Another rift

-{ Looks like a big one

               “It's from the—” He remembers they’re in public. “Anders.”

               Her jaw clenches, just slightly.

 

This particular rift is proving to be a bit of a problem.

               When Hawke and Varric arrive the Venatori who opened it already lie dead on the ground, bodies twisted in the agony of their last moments, eyes open and unseeing. Aevalle, Anders, Fenris and Cole are already there, Aevalle’s mark flaring bright as she jumps over a row of sewing machines to avoid a Rage demon’s flames. Fenris has that ridiculous sword, and he cleaves it right through a table as he narrowly misses a Despair demon, its shrill cries making the hair on Hawke’s arms stand on end.

               “About time you got here!” Aevalle yells. She turns mid-stride, pulling two arrows from the sling hanging from her belt. The Anchor sparks along them as she fires, one in each of the demon’s eyes, and in a blink Cole is at its back, his daggers sinking into its flaring body. It dissipates into a fine green mist that flows back to the rift, crackling and massive at the center of the factory.

               “I was at work!” Hawke calls back. She moves on instinct now, calling on mana to dispel a snaking tendril reaching out from the rift even as she shifts out of the way of the Despair demon’s attack. She feels the air around her grow cold, feels the hair on her arm freeze, and she can see her breath forming crystals in the air just before she calls up her fire, and she laughs to chase away the last remnants of the chill at the back of her neck.

               “Seal it!” Anders is yelling.

               “It won’t close!” Aevalle yells back. The anchor on her hand is burning, burning, but there is no tether connecting it to the rift. “Something’s blocking it!”

               Anders curses. He blinks twice and then Justice is burning out of his eyes, and he ripples with raw power as he casts a wall of ice to trap a Terror as it attempts to claw up through the linoleum floor of the factory.

               “A powerful spirit is holding it open,” Justice says, his voice deep and rising above the chaos of the battle around them. “Kill it and you will be able to finish this.”

               Fenris herds the Despair demon back into Hawke’s line of fire. It howls as her flames ignite the rags covering its frail body, and a well-timed bullet from Bianca finishes it off, even as Hawke turns and jumps back out of the range of a Rage demon’s fire.

               “Easier said than done,” Fenris snarls. “Which one?”

               “Little bumps rising on the back of your neck, sweat in the palm of your hand,” Cole says, slipping between Hawke and the Rage demon. The rest of his words are lost as he ducks, drawing his knives up and through the demon’s torso, driving it back into Fenris’ waiting blade.

               “Shit,” Varric yells. “A little backup?”

               Hawke glances up at the steel walkway above them, where Varric has Bianca slung over his shoulder and he’s running from a Terror, its too-thin hands clinging to the rails as it pursues the fleeing dwarf, screeching. Aevalle’s arrow pierces its skull and its body follows its momentum. It tumbles over its own long limbs off the side of the walkway, flailing as its body breaks apart before it hits the ground.

               “Hawke!” Fenris yells in warning. “Your left!”

               She turns, and there’s a goddamn spider the size of her dog coming at her.

               Without even thinking her fire blazes from her hands, even as she’s too shocked to scream, and as it comes upon her she tries to burn it off—long, knobbed legs with fine hairs all along them, too many eyes and something awful and Fade-green dripping from its mouth. The scream it lets out is unholy as she burns it, her feet walking her backwards, away from it, her heart beating frantically and her skin cold with panic.

               Fenris curses, loudly, and Hawke glances behind her, away from the trembling, burning corpse of the spider, and she looks back to see him bring his sword down through the corpse of another spider as it reaches for him, its legs twitching as it’s cleaved right through. “Disgusting,” he snarls, and there’s something about the tension in his arms as he brings his weapon up again that tells her he’s seen something truly unnerving. But hadn’t he laughed when she said she was afraid of spiders?

               His nose is flaring, like he’s smelling something he hates. _Rotten fish_ , she thinks, instinctively, recognizing his expression even without smelling it herself.

               There’s a sound like the hiss of steam, but low and slowed down, and Hawke turns back to the rift. She catches a glimpse of something with long, spindling legs coming out of its back, an almost human face with too many eyes, and she blinks and it’s gone, but the sound remains.

               She opens her mouth to ask _what the fuck was that_ , but Justice yells a warning and she whirls, bringing her arm up to shield her face as another spider lunges at her from above, spitting venom, her face reflected back at her in its eyes, pale with fear.

               That one burns brighter than the first, and the next, and the next and _where are they all coming from_?

               “Bluebird!” Varric yells, and Fenris shouts, wordless and frantic.

               Hawke turns her head, just for a moment, and sees Aevalle fall, clutching her hand to her chest, her hair spilling over her face and covering but not making a sound. Cole is standing over her, and his mouth is moving but Hawke can’t make out what he’s saying. His knives are in the belly of a spider, slicing through and turning as he moves to the next, but there’s so many swarming them, and one is clambering onto Aevalle’s back, its hairy legs reaching for her burning hand.

               But Hawke can’t help Aevalle, because there’s a hiss and a crackle of magic in the air and  something coming out of the rift. Something that’s not a spider and not a man but both at once, and her heart is hammering in her chest as it uncurls to its full, towering height. There’s something like a smile forming from its mouth with too-thin, too many teeth, and it doesn’t seem to have eyes but it moves its head as if casting its gaze all along the ruined factory, searching, searching.

               “Fear!” Justice snarls, and he calls spirit magic to his staff, bright and glaring, and Hawke winces as the creature bares its teeth and cackles in reply, high and screeching.

               “Vengeance,” it purrs, and power and rage alike erupt from Anders’ body as Justice lunges.

               Before they clash Fear darts away, blinking out of existence and back in again with a haze of frost magic and a fade step. Hawke leaps at its exposed back, hoping to drop it with fire and fists to keep it still long enough for Justice to score a hit, but she hears Fenris cry out in pain, as if he’s right in front of her.

               She stumbles, blinking—but there’s Fenris to her left, kicking a spider off Aevalle’s back, grim determination set on his features. Nothing’s attacking him—the spiders are swarming Aevalle, and it’s all he and Cole do to keep them off her.

               Justice yells a warning, but Hawke’s still too confused to respond. She falters, and doesn’t quite see Fear turn in front of her, doesn’t quite see his hand but then there it is around her neck, lifting her up off the ground.

               She can see, clear as day, her mother’s twisted body on the ground, a man leaning over her, more a shadow than a person in her memory. Then there’s something unseen crawling up her skin, something heavy on her chest and she can’t get it off, can’t get them off—

               Then there’s warmth in her chest, and she’s thinking of Fenris’ incredulous laughter when she said she was afraid of spiders, his gleaming eyes in the dark, his gentle touch on her hand as she lay under her bed.

               Hawke is not even fully aware of her screaming, or of the flames roaring around her, bright and wild and hot, she’s aware only of the memory of Fenris’ lips on hers, Aevalle lying in the grass and giggling in her backyard, Dorian and Anders arguing magical theory, Aveline’s nervous smile as she turns around, wearing a white dress and marigolds in her hair.

               Standing at the takeout counter and saying _shit Varric I think Fenris is allergic to fish I can’t make out with him if he puffs up_ _like a balloon._

 _Well,_ Varric replies, smirking. _You don’t have to kiss him on the lips._

               The Fear demon drops her, and she slams to the ground, breathless, dizzy. Her fire spreads out from her, and she looks up to see Fear recoiling, baring its teeth, all the spider limbs on its back twisting and curling away from the heat. It looks—looks like something that Fenris might have thought of, when he laughed at her story.

               Hawke doesn’t hesitate. She grins, digs her fingers into the concrete on either side of her, and launches back up, back at the creature. It slips through the fade and materialises just outside her grasp, but Justice is there, Anders’ glowing features set in stony determination, and the bladed end of his staff is through the demon’s body.

               “Release her,” Justice commands.

               Fear laughs. “I am not the one who holds her,” it says.

               Something not unlike panic races across Anders’ features then, and the light that is Justice falters in his eyes.

               Hawke sends a blast of flame at the demon’s back, and it screams—in rage, in terror, in something Hawke can’t identify—and then it dissipates into ash, pulled back into the rift.

               The rest of the spiders curl up and die with the Fear demon. Hawke turns, still grinning, but it fades as she sees Fenris on his knees, shaking Aevalle’s shoulders.

               “Aevalle,” he’s saying, his voice low and urgent. His eyes as he looks her over are intense, brows furrowed. “Aevalle!”

               She shudders. Cole kneels at her back, his hands tangling in her hair, and he leans forward to her ear and murmurs, softly. “She’s far away,” he says, louder, when she doesn’t respond.

               “It’s alright, Bluebird,” Varric is saying. “It’s gone, Hawke and Anders killed it.”

               She leans— _or falls_?—forward, resting her head on Fenris’ chest. “ _Lethallin_ ,” she says, slowly, her left hand clutched close.

               Fenris wraps his arms protectively around her shoulders.

               Anders squats down next to them, frowning at Aevalle. Fenris scowls at him but the mage ignores him.

               “Aevalle,” Anders says, slowly. “Can you hear me?”

               She nods into Fenris’ chest, slowly.

               “Can I look you over? Make sure you’re unharmed?”

               Aevalle doesn’t reply. Fenris is still glaring at Anders, and Hawke can see the focus in his gaze, the set of his jaw and the minute movements of his fingers that mean his thoughts are running a mile a minute. Because she knows him, she can see the panic at the edges of his fierce expression.

               “Fenris,” Hawke says. She puts her hand on his shoulder.

               He doesn’t flinch. He blinks, not quite as if startled, and his head inclines just slightly toward Hawke’s hand. Then he hesitates only a moment longer before looking back down to Aevalle.

               “Aevalle,” he says. “Are you hurt?”

               She shrugs. Fenris pulls away, slowly, delicately, and she doesn’t react. He moves far enough away that Anders can look her over, but only just.

 

Merrill lets herself into Anders’ Darktown home, the blue light on over the porch. Well before sunset, but so little light reaches past the hill and the high-rises of Lowtown looming overhead. She waves to Hawke and Varric in the car as she slips in the door, uncharacteristically unlocked.

               She’s still covered in flour from work that day, and her attempts to brush it off fall flat as she sees Fenris sleeping on the only armchair in the house, the sword he stole from those ruins leaning on the wall just behind him. She thinks he looks remarkably calm, asleep like this, and she allows a moment and a smile to watch him—it’s hard to hate him in the moments he’s not scowling.

               “Here,” she can hear Anders say in his patient room.

               There’s no response. Merrill slips off her sandals and walks down the hall, her head tilted slightly. She’s not meaning to sneak, not really, but it seems best to be quiet, doesn’t it?

               Aevalle laughs, low and dark, and Merrill’s heart sinks. Oh, but she only laughs like that when she’s spiraling down. Her first instinct is as it always is—to rush in there and comfort her, to whisper sweet things and try to make Aevalle remember that she is loved, that she is not as undeserving as she thinks she is, but that always ends in a fight and they’re only just speaking again now, she doesn’t think she can bear it.

               “It will help with your dreams,” Anders says.

               Merrill bites her lip to stifle her alarm.

               She hears a sound behind her, a slight brush of clothing against the wall. She jerks her head around, startled, and Fenris is there, eyes gleaming in the dark, brows furrowed as he crosses his arms and leans against the wall like he’s ready to spring off it at any time.

               Instantly, Merrill feels embarrassed. Like he’s slinking around in hallways to protect Aevalle, and she’s just snooping.

               There’s a sound of a pill packet dropping to the table. “You might feel a bit drowsy. Don’t operate any heavy machinery.”

               “What, like a fifty quart mixer?”

               He sighs, exasperated. “Precisely like a fifty quart mixer.”

               “Just kidding. Baker humour. In any case, no thanks.”

               Merrill hears the packet being picked up again, tossed in the air. Presumably Anders catches it, because it doesn’t seem to hit the floor.

               “Aevalle,” he says.

               “Took it too much as a kid. Guess I’m allergic now or something.”

               Anders hesitates. “That,” he says, “doesn’t normally happen with the pills. You were taking raw felandaris? As a child?”

               “I mean I’d prove it to you but I don’t think you’d like to be cleaning my vomit off your floor.”

               Merrill clenches her fists at her sides—Oh, she can’t believe the others haven’t figured out the trick of getting Aevalle to talk. And there in the room, on the other side of the wall, Anders is about to stumble uselessly all over Aevalle’s secrets. In the state she’s in, she might just blurt them to spite him.

               “Aevalle,” he says, slowly. “Justice told me something.”

               “Good for him.”

               Fenris, impossibly, tenses even more. Merrill closes her eyes. She should not want to hear them as much as she should.

               “The others all think it’s the Dread Wolf haunting your dreams. Is it true?”

               Aevalle doesn’t answer. She hums, thoughtfully, and changes the subject. “Speaking of Justice, did you call the Augur?”

               Fenris visibly relaxes. Merrill lets out a breath.

               He sighs. “Stop deflecting.”

               “Just saying. He’s an old friend. He can help you.”

               “You have a surprising number of old friends from places people don’t normally go.”

               “We met at a rock concert. People go to those.”

               “Aevalle—”

               “Anders.”

               Again, he sighs. “I— _We_ thank you for your concern. But we still have work to do.”

               There’s something Merrill can’t identify (somewhere in between fondness and sorrow) in Aevalle’s voice as she says, “Since when did you become _we_?”

               He doesn’t answer her. Merrill glances at Fenris, uneasily, and his scowl deepens.

               “You know,” Aevalle says. Merrill hears her bare feet touching the floor, the rush of fabric on fabric as she slides off the patient bed. “Someone once told me that I had to help myself before I could help anyone else. It’s good advice.”

               “You don’t seem to take it.”

               She laughs, and it’s a little more like herself. “I have good days. Today... Today was not one of them.”

               There are no words between them, for so long that Merrill wonders what is passing in that silence, in that space between them, unsaid.

               “I’ll look into an alternative for you,” Anders says, slowly. “To felandaris.”

               “You don’t have to—”

               Anders must smile or raise his hand or something, because she stops mid-sentence.

               “I’m a healer, remember? And... you’re a friend, Aevalle. It’s the least I can do.”

               Fenris pushes himself off the wall then, and as he passes Merrill he hesitates. She meets his gaze without being able to read it, really, and her stomach does a flip wondering what he’s thinking.

               But he inclines his head, and she follows him into the room. Merrill makes a show of exclaiming her worries and running her hands through Aevalle’s hair, over her face, asking a hundred questions of Anders until she is hushed, gently by her Dalish lover. Fenris is grouchy, bristles at being near Anders, calls him an abomination twice before they lead Aevalle to his car.

               They do not speak of what they overheard in the hallway. Merrill does not let go of Aevalle’s hand. If Aevalle sees the understanding look that passes between Fenris and Merrill, in the silence of the car ride that Merrill tries to fill with too many words, Aevalle does not mention it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay folks, this was a particularly difficult chapter to write. Mostly in that I couldn't decide the precise order of the next couple chapters, had a half-written text message chapter I abandoned - while funny, it didn't move the plot forward or provide any new information and we did just have one. And I couldn't figure out how to end it.
> 
> I have to think that Anders and Justice not seeking out the help of the Avvar as being intentional. Since we get to spend so much time with them in the Jaws of Hakkon DLC, I wonder if maybe they just didn't want to be split from one another, which they feared the Avvar might choose to do.
> 
> Anyway there's probably a million typos in this. Whoops.


	36. Free of Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW content in this chapter

Hawke is dreaming, and Merrill has her by the hand, leading her through the thumping bass and flashing lights of a nightclub. Her cheeks feel warm, and as she looks around the room everything seems a little fuzzy—she has a moment where she thinks that maybe this is just a normal dream, but oh look, she can see herself dancing with Anders over there, sending long, long looks back at Fenris. Not one of her proudest moments.

               She looks down, and it’s Aevalle’s hand Merrill is holding. She finds it so strange that they’re sneaking through without anyone seeing them—but everyone’s paying more attention to one another, or to the way Hawke is trying to goad on Fenris.

               Merrill stops in a hallway, where the bass is thumping but the music itself is dulled by walls and the press of bodies slipping behind them. She starts to fumble with a door and a set of lockpicks that look suspiciously like Bela’s.

               “Merrill,” Hawke says in Aevalle’s voice. “That’s a closet.”

               Merrill only giggles when she finally manages to get the door open. “Bela said it was a _supply cupboard._ I have to tell you something. It’s important,” she says, with finality that Aevalle and Hawke don’t understand.

               “ _Elgar’nan_ , Merrill, there’s cleaning supplies in there.”

               Merrill pouts and reaches for Aevalle’s hands. Merrill’s hands are warm and slightly sweaty, and Merrill steps a little too close, enough that Hawke can feel the heat coming off her body, smell the alcohol on her breath. “Please,” she murmurs, almost pleading, and it warms something deep in Hawke’s— _Aevalle’s_ —core.

               Hawke is aware of Aevalle trying to dismiss that thought, that sudden warmth. No, Merrill’s with Bela. She’s just being overly friendly because she’s drunk.

               _And yet she’s dragging you into a closet_ , somewhere back in her traitorous mind thinks, and she feels her cheeks growing warm.

               “It’s been a while since anyone dragged me off into a dark room,” Aevalle says, laughing a little as she allows Merrill to lead her into the closet. Merrill closes the door, giggling, and Aevalle allows her eyes to adjust to the small amount of light coming in the bottom of the door, from the glowstick around Merrill’s wrist Aevalle’s only just noticed.

               “Where did you get that?” she wonders, laughing still. “I haven’t seen one of those since...”

               Mythal, she needs to watch how much she’s drinking. A little tipsy and words just tend to fall out of her mouth.

               “In years,” she says instead.

               Then Merrill’s hands are on her shoulders, and her lips on Aevalle’s.

               _Oh_ , Aevalle thinks, stupidly, and it’s echoed somewhere in the place Hawke is still separate from the dream. Merrill hums and continues kissing her, softly, and Aevalle thinks, _Oh!_ once, twice, then something hot builds up inside her and she kisses back, and she feels the wall on her back and Merrill moving closer, a knee pressing between her thighs. Aevalle moans, so loudly she surprises herself _but it’s little more than a whimper,_ and she tries to jerk her head back with a gasp, but ends up smacking her head on the wall instead.

               “How many?” Merrill purrs, and Aevalle can’t breathe.

               She doesn’t say anything, standing there stupidly as Merrill’s hands wander down, toying with her scarf where its point lays nestled in the valley of her breasts.

               “ _Lethallan_ ,” she murmurs, low and husky and Aevalle feels her jaw tremble of its own accord, her knees jerk, her hands clench beside her. “How old are you really?” she continues, _just_ tugging at Aevalle’s scarf, just a suggestion of what she wants. Her mouth wanders and she breathes against Aevalle’s ear, her breath warm and steady. “How many ages have you seen, _Lethallan_?”

               _What_ , Hawke thinks.

               The part of her that wants to shove Merrill away in panic is abruptly forgotten as Merrill’s tongue brushes along the tip of her ear, _so gently_ and she gasps, toes curling.

               “I won’t tell,” Merrill whispers, low, gentle. It makes Aevalle think of Sera, of pushing Sera so hard that they knocked over furniture, broke things, broke each other— _a fight and a fuck to ground me here_ , Sera deserves better. A lie when she told Fenris that Sera kicked her out.

               Merrill pulls the scarf over her head and drops it on the floor.

               “ _Lethallan_ ,” she manages to say.

               ” _Lethallan_ ,” Merrill purrs in return, her fingers slipping under Aevalle’s shirt. She pulls it up—a little clumsily, though not for lack of trying. Her fingers brush against Aevalle’s skin as the fabric rides up, until Merrill pauses just below Aevalle’s bra.

               Merrill’s bright, wide eyes look up at Aevalle with wonder, awe, lust, and Aevalle trembles.

               “Let me worship you,” she pleads, the words sending a spike of heat through Aevalle’s body. “Please. Let me show you all the respect you’re due, _hahren_ , let me please you so you forget your sorrows.”

_Holy fuck_ , Hawke manages to think. _What._

               Aevalle rolls her head back. “ _Merrill_.”

               Merrill’s knuckles are resting on her skin, and she’s so sensitive and that’s not where she wants them but it’s close. Her clothes are too tight, _too tight_ , and it’s been so long that her hips are swaying, her whole body thrumming with the thought of release.

               “Please,” she whispers, and she’s not sure what she means.

               Merrill pulls Aevalle’s shirt off and drops it on the floor. The sudden cold air and makes Aevalle shudder once, then again when Merrill’s hands reach behind her to unclasp her bra.

               Aevalle’s hands wander down to Merrill’s belt, to slip into her pants and rest her fingers in the hollows of Merrill’s hipbones. As Merrill slips the bra off she draws away, humming, and the bra falls from Aevalle’s arms to the floor.

               “Not yet, _Lethallan_ ,” Merrill chides. She picks something up off the floor—Aevalle’s scarf?—and smiles mischievously.

               Aevalle lets Merrill take her hands, even as she frowns in confusion. But Merrill only smiles, draws herself up and kisses Aevalle again, slowly, lovingly. It takes Aevalle a moment but she relents, gradually. Merrill makes soft little pleasing sounds as Aevalle begins to melt against her lips, her neck and her cheeks and her body warm. Bit by bit she relinquishes control to Merrill, until her hands hang limp in Merrill’s grasp, her lips only moving in response, an echo of the pleasure being drawn out of them.

               Merrill breaks the kiss and Aevalle hums, dreamily. Merrill’s soft laugh in answer makes her feel warm and happy, and she feels more intoxicated on Merrill’s perfume than she is on alcohol.

               She’s only dimly aware of Merrill raising their hands above her head, of her hands being tied to the rail with her scarf. When Merrill drops her hands, Aevalle’s fingers curl and she starts to frown—what can she be planning?—but Merrill kisses her again, so softly, her fingers circling on Aevalle’s bare stomach and Aevalle forgets everything but Merrill’s gentle lips, fleeting touches.

               Soon, Merrill draws her kisses downward, and Aevalle rolls her head back to allow Merrill to kiss her neck. She pants her pleasure into the air, her voice a low hum in her throat, and Merrill’s kisses are butterfly wings on her skin; light and gentle. Aevalle’s warmth climbs in slow degrees, with each fluttering kiss, each warm breath against her skin, and Merrill’s lips draw ever lower.

               Merrill kisses her way down to the top of Aevalle’s left breast, and she kisses her nipple with such reverence that Aevalle feels her hips rock, trying to grind against Merrill’s knee. Merrill slips her leg away with a small, chiding laugh, and she kisses there until the nipple is hard and pebbled. Aevalle’s breath hitches and Merrill takes it between her lips and begins to suck, applying the lightest pressure.

               Aevalle gasps, arching her back, and Merrill makes a high, sweet pleased noise that makes Aevalle roll her head back and focus on her own breathing for a long, desperate moment. Merrill releases her nipple and Aevalle sighs.

               “How long has it been?” she whispers, her lips brushing against Aevalle’s flesh.

               Aevalle can’t answer her. Her breath comes out in low, drawn out pants, the ghost of a moan on the edge of each one.

               Merrill returns to her ministrations on Aevalle’s breast.

               How long they stay there like that, Aevalle isn’t sure. She sways, Merrill’s hands on her hips the only thing keeping her against the wall, and she makes no noise herself but _Merrill_ —oh, Merrill is humming and gasping and making soft little pleased noises with every suck, at every roll of Aevalle’s hips and every shaken breath that is almost a moan, almost some audible sign of arousal.

               Then the door to the closet bursts open, and Aevalle’s head rolls lazily to one side as she squints through the haze of pleasure to see who it is.

               “Kitten,” Isabela says. She sounds pleasantly surprised. “I was wondering where you’d gone off to.”

               Only then does Merrill take her lips from Aevalle’s breast, and Aevalle sighs with disappointment.

               “I’m worshipping her,” Merrill says, her voice laced with desire.

               “I can see that,” Isabela replies. “Should I leave you two to finish?”

               “Stay,” Aevalle says before Merrill can answer.

               She’s not entirely sure what’s come over her. Not entirely sure if she would have said it without Merrill’s hands on her hips, without heat coiling in her belly, pulsing in her core. But the arch of Isabela’s eyebrow and the smirk on her lips makes it all worth it, and Isabella steps into the already crowded closet and closes the door behind her.

               “How retro,” she says, flicking the glowstick with her fingers before she moves to touch the scarf holding Aevalle’s hands up. “And this is very daring, Kitten. Was this your idea?”

               “I want her to come first. I want to show her how perfect she is,” Merrill says, as if that explains everything, and returns her lips to Aevalle’s breast.

               Isabella’s laugh is soft, pitching low while the whisper of a noise that escapes Aevalle climbs higher. She reaches around Merrill and draws her fingers along Aevalle’s skin, just above the hem of her jeans.

               “Kitten,” she purrs, “why didn’t you say so earlier?”

               Isabela leans over Merrill and kisses Aevalle. Not so gentle as Merrill, but not rough either—Isabela is warm and tastes mostly like whiskey, and her movements are confident, the grind of the piercing on her lower lip a pleasant tease. She kisses and sucks Aevalle’s lips, all the while Merrill humming little pleased noises at Aevalle’s breast, suckling, whirling her tongue around and around, and Aevalle can’t hold back the moan that escapes her throat, soft as it is.

               She feels Isabela smile against her mouth at the sound, feels Merrill’s pleased sigh, and she feels the heat in her body climbing again.

               “Please,” she whispers into Isabela’s lips. “Please.”

               Isabela draws a finger along her _vallaslin_. “So polite.”

               Isabela bows her head to Aevalle’s other breast, and Hawke has time only to think, _Oh no_ , before Bela’s tongue is on her nipple, hot and slick and clever.

               Aevalle _jerks_. Her knees tremble and she almost falls, can hear the creak of the rod her arms are tied to, can feel it bend and give, but then Isabela’s hands are on her hips, pressing her into the wall, keeping her upright, and her kisses are wandering down, down, and as Aevalle trembles and _breathes so hard_ but otherwise makes no sound, even as Bela undoes the button on her jeans and slips her hand between her underwear and her skin.

_I need to wake up_ , Hawke thinks, desperately, but her whole world is suddenly reduced to the feeling of Bela’s fingers slipping further down still, the trembling of Aevalle’s lips as her fingers slip between her folds to somewhere hot, slick and sensitive.

               Just as she feels completely overwhelmed, the dream changes.

               “We almost died,” she says, and they’re sitting on a roof, huddled under a stolen tarp for protection from the rain. “Over your fucking wallet.”

               “We could have looked for your shit, too,” Hawke’s father says, tucking the wallet away like a precious thing. “Didn’t want any of it back?”

               “A scarf, a jacket, two pennies and a paper clip.” She shivers and hugs her legs closer to herself. She doesn’t admit that she wishes she’d taken the time to look for the jacket, at least.

               “Let me help you with that nose,” he says. For the fifth time.

               She rolls her eyes and allows it just to shut him up. Tries not to wince at the feeling of the bone gently gliding back into place.

               “Malcolm,” he says.

               She raises her eyebrow.

               “Malcolm Hawke. My name.”

               She stares at him. Trying to read something in her expression.

               “Call me Hawke, everyone does. What's your name? You know that's how it works, right? I give mine, you give yours, we’re fast friends forever...”

               She looks away.

               “I have a thing about apostates jumping out of nowhere to help me,” she says.

               He laughs. Loud and deep and strong—and if Hawke were in charge of this strange dream state, she would be laughing too. That’s how he was, until the end.

               Even so, her heart feels warm, and she says, “Lavellan. My clan name is Lavellan.”

               “Was that so hard?” he says. Going for his wallet in his pocket. “Now, let me show you something.”

               Maker, Hawke thinks. Not the baby pictures.

               “This is my wife.” He’s so damn _proud_ as he says it. “It’s—it’s an old picture. She’s pregnant— _twins_.” He laughs. “Fuck, Marian was _enough_. Oh, here she is!”

               “What’s all over her face?”

               “I... actually don’t know.” He squints, rather comically, looking at the picture. “Here’s a more recent one—she’s five, now.”

               “Are they in Kirkwall?”

               He laughs. “Hell no, they’re back in Fereldan. I uh—I got a letter from a friend in the circle here. Said he was in trouble, and I owe him... a lot.” His expression falls, just a touch, his shoulders slouching. “I didn’t make it,” he says, softly.

               “ _Ir abelas_ ,” she says.

               “ _Ma serannas_ , _ma falon_.” When she frowns at him, surprised, he grins. “Oh, you thought I was kidding earlier? Mamae taught me elven while she scrubbed toilets in Denerim. Not exactly glamorous but if you wanna know the elven for _pass me the toilet cleaner Mal_ , I can tell you in infinite detail.”

               She laughs. Longer and harder than she should—and it’s cleansing, warm.

               “ _Fenedhis,_ ” she says, laughing still.

               She’s bleeding out. They’re lying in the grime and the filth of this place, and Malcolm is pouring magic into the hole in her stomach, even though he’s exhausted, even though he has nothing else left to give.

               “Stay with me Lavellan,” he pleads. Her head falls forward, she’s too exhausted to hold it up, and she feels his hand on her chin, pulling it up, smearing her own blood on her face. “Hey don’t give up on me now, not when we’re almost there. Talk to me Lavellan, tell me about—you got a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Pretty thing like you. Aw, shit, now I’ve made you cry...”

               “I fucked up,” she chokes out. “Hawke, I fucked up. I promised—they’re dead because of me. Because I was too weak, because—because I couldn’t, I still can’t, and even after all that I still couldn’t save two fucking kids. I promised I’d come back but I can’t, if I go back—I watched the Dread Wolf kill Mythal, Hawke, I watched him do it, and he— _he did it for me_. If Mythal judges me now I’m worse than dead. I’ll never see him again. I can’t face him with that hanging over me, I can’t.”

               Malcom Hawke’s blood dripping from his arm onto the glowing runes on the floor. He’s chanting, low, darkly, in elven, the words she told him to say, and before long the runes are no longer glowing, the whole ancient building no longer shaking, no longer humming with raw energy.

               She’s sitting in a field in Fereldan, and it’s spring, and there are flowers all around her. They’re not glowing, they’re not golden, but they’re bright and colourful, and the girl sitting cross-legged in the grass with her is loud-mouthed and insolent but very sweet.

               “Marian,” she says, laughing, “sit still!”

               “Are Mom and Dad done talking yet?” she says, a smear of mud across her cheek, and Hawke in dreaming looks upon her own face as a child and thinks _well this is really fucking strange._ “He said he’d bring me a present. He promised.”

Something doubles, twists, her own vague memory of this event overlapping and fighting with this one.

               They sit in the field and she’s teaching Marian a song— _or Marian is learning a song_ —and it doesn’t have words because the words are supposed to be in that half-Tevene half-elven that the slaves of the Imperium speak amongst themselves, and she never learned Tevene but she does remember the melody, crouching in the woods in Tevinter and letting a little elven boy cry into her shirt while his sister sang.

               She’s there, for a moment. The night is hot and she knows without a doubt that they are being pursued, that they don’t care she’s stolen two elven children but they care she’s killed their master and stolen his property, and they’re doing _so well_ but the little boy falls and she catches him as he starts to cry.

               “Now is not the _time_ , Leto!” the girl scolds.

               It’s hard to say why she’s teaching Hawke’s daughter this song, and it hurts as much as it helps but _it’s something_. It’s something.

               “Marian!” her father says, snatching the girl up in his broad, strong arms. “There’s my girl.”

               The girl laughs, bright and warm, and Hawke— _the person Hawke is in this strange dream_ —feels warmth in her heart, at having done at least this right, at least keeping one promise in the middle of a million failures.

               “Thanks for walking me home,” Hawke says, grinning sideways at her, as they walk along the road back to Hawke’s pregnant wife, the setting sun in their eyes and Hawke’s daughter asleep in his arms.

               She laughs a little. “From Kirkwall,” she says, incredulous.

               He laughs, louder. “From Kirkwall,” he parrots, sounding smug.

               She should say any number of things. _It’s the least I could do, almost getting you killed. I was supposed to fix it on my own—now you’ve been dragged into this_.

               “Evanura,” she says instead.

               He looks at her peculiarly.

               “My mother named me Evanura.”

               Something like understanding passes across his features. Instead of saying anything, he whistles.

               “No wonder you don’t tell anyone. That’s—who names their kid after a _sword_?”

               She laughs. “It means _free of pain_ ,” she says, softly. Surprising herself.

               That hurts less than it normally does, today. Today it feels like a genuine wish of a troubled woman, not like a knife in the gut.

               Her surroundings are fuzzy and vague for a moment, and then—

               There’s a human woman in the temple, wearing pearls and fine gloves.

               Cole tells them this, wringing his hands and looking over Solas’ shoulder as he passes healing magic up her arm. There are red, red marks where the Anchor spread, but now they are not glowing green and the ancient magic is at rest in her body once more.

               “You need to tell her,” Cole says, urgently. “Want to tell her, wishing, wondering, worrying—you’re out of time. She is _here,_ and you will lose your little arrow if you do not tell her _now_.”

               Solas’ mouth twists into a frown. He draws his hands away from her arm and then, after a moment’s hesitation, he raises one to her face, cups her cheek _so gently_.

               Cole says that, from time to time. She finds it odd—normally he wouldn’t let a secret lie if there was hurt to be had in its keeping. Especially not from her.

               “Stay here, _da’assan_ ,” Solas tells her, firmly, and she pretends to listen to him. Thinks about it, for once—still weak from a few days sleeping off the effects of closing that rift and stabilizing the mark, it sounds appealing to just sleep away this mystery visitor. Let her _hahren_ take care of the shem.

               But what sort of shem wears pearls to an ancient elven temple, she wonders, and finds herself slipping off her bedroll and following on silent feet.

               She follows just at the edge of Solas’ veilfire light, keeping a corner behind him in winding hallways past glittering remnants of mosaics and frescos that crumble under her fingertips, their colours lost to ages untold.

               Crouched in the doorway to the temple, she clenches her hands at her sides as the _virabelasan_ whisper Mythal’s name in her ear, grits her teeth to resist their commands to lay herself prone at her feet and beg her forgiveness. Her heart hammers as she watches Solas approach this strange shem, her grey hair and the wrinkles around her eyes shifting as she turns to see him. How—how can this shem, this aging shem, be Mythal?

               “I knew you would come here, Dread Wolf,” the strange shem says, her voice crackling like a whip through the hum of the _virabelasan_.

               She can’t breathe.

               Solas laughs—low and deep and full of the kind of rage that’s anchored tightly against the soul, barely contained. The kind of laugh the Dalish say _Fen’harel_ wrapped himself in after he locked the gods away. “You should congratulate yourself,” he says, and there is nothing in his voice that sounds like the _hahren_ she knows. “Your pieces are expertly aligned. The game is yours, and I did not recognise the moves that brought it to a close until it was too late.”

               She clamps a shaking hand over her mouth to keep herself from crying out. The _virabelasan_ whirls in her mind, her ancestors claw at her mind, _God of Tricks_ , _of lies and art and music and_ God of Freedom, once, but Revas turned to Harel, and the others turned to war, to blood and the slaughter of innocents who cried out his name and he could not save us all—

               This strange woman— _she can’t be Mythal_ because she’s dead—smiles, and to her credit she seems to have a little sorrow about her aged, beautiful features. “This is not my doing, old friend,” she tells him.

               He stills.

               “I did not want this,” he says, emphasising his words with short, downward gestures. “I never wanted this.”

               He apologises as he takes what she has to give—and what’s left of Mythal dies in his arms.

               She’s standing in that Dalish restaurant, half her head shaved and the newest piercing on her ear still red, and the office her boss uses is crowded and disorganised, stacks of binders full of food safety records on his desk.

               “Look,” he’s saying, “I know sure as hell that kid is not your cousin.”

               She clenches her fists. “Does it matter? We need a dishwasher.”

               He rubs his face with his hands. “For fuck’s sake, Aevalle. Do you even know him? I’m not an idiot, I married a Dalish man and those tattoos are _not_ vallaslin. I recognise a Tevene accent when I hear it. How many free elves from Tevinter do you know wandering around Kirkwall?”

               He looks up at her again. His eyes are green, and they belong to a boy in a jail cell, holding his sister’s hand. It’s hard to separate them, even now.

               “Look,” he says, glancing at the door behind her. “I—I know we’ve never talked about this. But it’s hard to forget you. I thought—I thought for sure you were her kid or something, but the longer I know you...”

               She crosses her arms over her chest to disguise the panic welling up from underneath her ribs.

               “I’ve looked the other way for a lot, Aevalle Lavellan. If that is your name.”

               She narrows her eyes.

               “But at some point, owing you my life and my sister’s doesn’t change the fact that you’re showing up late for every shift, that you’ve got more black eyes over the last three months than any of those punks on the line get in a year, that you’re drinking at work. I want to help you, Aevalle, I really do, and I’m sure that kid—what’s his name—Fenris, needs help too, but I need this business to feed my family. That has to come first.”

               He stands up. She tries to make herself look bigger, and a thousand threats and promises are flashing through her mind— _please,_ she thinks, but can’t quite say. _Please._

               But then his hands are on her shoulders, warm and strong and _paternal_ , and she relaxes.

               “Some advice, Aevalle,” he says. “You can’t help Fenris unless you help yourself first.”

               She stares up at him, uncomprehending.

               “He can stay?” she asks, her mouth dry.

               He smiles sadly. “Clean up your act,” he says. “And Fenris can stay.”

               The dream jolts backwards, just enough, and the late morning sunrise is filtering in through the windows of the restaurant as Aevalle helps the hostess set tables. It’s still early for the lunch rush, so the dining room is deserted, quiet enough to hear the cooks’ laughter coming from the kitchen as they prep.

The bell hanging over the door rings and she turns, frowning.

               He’s talking to the hostess. Pale hair and tawny skin, and there are lines on his exposed flesh that make the _virabelasan_ whisper at the edge of her awareness. But then he sees her, and she sees his green eyes under his hair, so tired, so angry, feral and _hurt_ and she’s embraced him without thinking, without being aware of anything but _him_ , just stumbling in off the street like Mythal’s dropped him here herself.

_He used to be so small_ , she thinks, as he stands there and lets her hold him, stiffens but does not hold her back, standing there defeated, wavering between fight and flight.

               “Fenris,” he tells her when she asks, and her heart breaks.

               She almost calls him _Leto_. Pulls away and says _“Lethallin_ ,” instead.

               And Hawke wakes up, gasping, staring at the ceiling and whispering _,_ “No fucking way,” into the empty air.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evanura - According to an ask on FenxShiral's tumblr, means "Free from pain" or somesuch. The sword passed down through the emerald knights, represented the might of the Dales.
> 
> \--
> 
> SO ANYWAY this is the reveal that made me go back and turn chapter 3 into chapters 3-8 or whatever it is
> 
> Sorry about taking longer than normal to update, I was working on which scenes in particular were going to be in this chapter. This is probably the last dream sequence chapter Hawke will be seeing, at least in this fashion, and there were a million scenes I wanted to get in but just wouldn't fit. 
> 
> Oh and my parents got a puppy recently and I've been coerced into puppy sitting on my days off instead of writing so I mean at least my excuse is adorable


	37. Enlighten Me

Fenris wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of his phone vibrating

            He’s on his feet before he’s even awake, before he can even understand what's going on. It vibrates again, louder, knocked from his chest to the false wood floor of their apartment, and Fenris stares at it like a foreign thing, a mystery, for another ring.

                He scrambles to answer the phone. It might be Aevalle, he thinks, kicked out of the witch's apartment again. Hasn't happened just yet, not since Sundermount, but it could. 

                But it's not Aevalle. It's Hawke.

                He answers, brows furrowed and heart pounding.

                “Hawke?”

                She doesn't say anything. He can hear her breathing. Rough, frightened, panicked 

                “Marian?” He tries, tentatively.

                There's an audible shudder on her end of the phone.

                “Marian,” he says, “are you in danger?”

                “I don't know,” she chokes out, barely a whisper.

                He can't breathe.

                “Where are you?”

                “I'm sorry,” she says. She hangs up the phone.

                He tries calling her back. She doesn't answer. 

                He paces their entire apartment as he calls again, again, and again, but she doesn't pick up. He can feel the panic building, even though he tries his best to keep it down - the lyrium lights up the walls of the apartment and every one of his worst nightmares is played before his eyes.

                He looks at his phone. Calls a different number.

                He has to call Varric three times before he picks up.

                “Andraste's flaming bikini Broody it's two in the morning.”

                Fenris is all strung nerves and muscles strung too tight, and he has no patience left to even apologise. “Where's Hawke?”

                “Hawke?” He can hear the confusion in Varric’s voice, the phone being buffeted as he presumably rubs his eyes. “I dunno, maybe at home, most likely sleeping like I was until twenty seconds ago.”

                Fenris curses. “That app! Use that app!”

                “Sure thing,” Varric grumbles. “I'm at your disposal today. Apparently.”

                He listens in silence as Varric complains, presumably taking the phone away from his face to check the app.

                “She's at home, Broody,” says Varric. “Now would you mind telling me what this is all about?”

                Fenris' mouth is dry. “I don't—” he sighs. “She called me. Just now.”

                “And it was a booty call to a mystery location? I understand completely but maybe you could have just asked her for a hint instead.”

                Fenris scowls. “Something is wrong,” he says. He goes to the window and peers through a crack in the curtains.

                “Well then, Shartan,” Varric says. “You know where she is.”

                Varric hangs up the phone. Fenris lets the curtain drop and tries to think, tries to breathe.

                Then Fenris' phone rings again.

                He doesn't even look at the caller ID as he scrambles to answer it. “Hawke?”

                “Alright since we're both up,” Varric is saying, not even skipping a beat, “can you explain to me what the hell is going on between you and Hawke?”

                Fenris blinks. “What?” He says.

                “No actually,” Varric continues, undeterred by Fenris' confusion. “It's two in the morning, I'm awake, you're obviously in some sort of broody state of mind. Enlighten me. It's only driving every single one of us completely fucking mad, you know.”

                Fenris rests his head against the window through the curtains, wondering how Varric will react if he just hangs up the phone.

                “I mean you both look like absolute hell so obviously you're miserable with whatever is or is not going on between you two. You're convinced Danarius has been pretending he's your sister this whole time, Hawke is clearly having weird ass dreams she's telling no one about, and you both refuse to look each other in the eye and maybe talk about it with one another instead of just pining and staring at each other's shoulder blades—”

                “What,” Fenris says.

                “What what?”

                “Say that again.”

                “That you're both not looking at each other? Broody I thought that would have been obvious—”

                “Not that,” Fenris says, “the other thing.”

                “Nightmares? Yeah apparently when she went with Daisy and the others to go let free a demon—yeah that plan was never going to go well was it—she fell asleep on the way there and she was saying shit in elven in her sleep, and she got really cagey when they asked her about it.”

                Fenris grits his teeth. 

                “Daisy thinks that the uh, Dread Wolf has something to do with it? Anyway she told me to keep an eye out for Hawke but you know how she is, she refuses to talk to anyone about anything and—Broody? Hey, Fenris, you still there?”

                He hangs up the phone.

 

“Okay,” Hawke says as she sits on the rug in front of the fireplace, “no sleeping ever again until I figure this out.”

               She's put her phone on silent (to keep the guilt from ignoring Fenris' calls at bay) and her music on as loud as it goes. That should keep her up—Barkspawn whines and paces but she ignores him.

                She's surrounded herself with printouts of every single record of her strange dreams. Not all compacted into her phone, they spiral out around her in a completely disorganized mess. She allows herself one long, panicked moment in which she's not certain where to start.

                Then she takes in one shaking breath and grabs the closest one to her.

                At first, it's all just nonsense. Her frantic attempts to type out what remnants of the dream clung to her mind. But she notices something — _smells like cedar and camp fires_ —and she thinks, _Solas_. The next part is about her father, and she takes her scissors and cuts them apart, to place in separate piles.

                She doesn't know how long she's at it. Could be hours, could be minutes. She doesn't even make a significant dent; some papers she cuts up a hundred times, separating single words to put in specific piles. Some she leaves whole, aside, scattered as the thoughts on the pages are they belong together. She has an uncapped marker in her mouth, making notes in the margins and drawing large circles around repeated details or words in between cutting and sorting into piles.

                Barkspawn lies nearby, sighing at being evicted from his favourite place by the fire, until suddenly he's not. She glances up once at the faint light from the street shuddering in the hall; the door must be swinging in the wind. She thinks, _Carver_ , somewhat distantly. Must have left it unlocked again. But it tends to bring more blessings than disaster in her life so she can’t bring herself to be particularly angry about it these days.

                She has a stack up to her knee of references to green eyes. She has to focus on those instead. So she doesn't notice that someone else is in the house until her music abruptly stops, leaving a ringing in her ears.

                She stills, scissors halfway through a piece of paper.

                She looks up, slowly, and there's Fenris, standing there, wide eyed and lyrium glow fading as he looks down at her on the floor, his brow furrowing, his hand falling from the controls for the sound system on the wall.

                “Marian,” he says.

                Barkspawn is standing behind him, wagging his stumpy little tail and bowing.

                The marker falls from her mouth.

                “Fenris,” she says. Then she says it again, her voice high with panic, and she says, “Why, why are you here?”

                He's staring at her like she's grown two heads. “You called me,” he says.

                “I know that,” she says, “but why are you— _fuck_.” 

                She's knocked over one of her piles as she jumped to her feet. She scrambles to right it again, and as she's looking down Fenris starts to approach; she freezes in place and he hesitates. 

                “What are you doing?” He says, softy.

               She has a hundred excuses prepared for anyone who might walk in on her; any single one of them would do, really. In her head she smiles as she always does, looks up at Fenris and quirks that she's writing her memoirs, just organizing her thoughts. Would he like to be described as perfect or gorgeous?

                But she looks up at him and her sad attempts at a smile die at the worry written all over his face.

                “I,” she says, softly, and doesn't manage to say anything else. 

                He stays where he is standing, not saying a word. But he looks her up and down, looks down at the piles of papers surrounding her—which suddenly look less organized to her now that someone else can see them—and he licks his lips and says, “Marian, what's going on?”

                _Fuck_ , those eyes. He's looking at her and they're so green, his brows furrowed with worry and his lips hang just open after the question falls from them, just long enough for a glimpse of his tongue, his teeth. 

                He's approaching her again, and she's standing there shell-shocked and wide eyed, and he reaches out for her like she's a wild animal, frightened and strange, but he doesn't quite touch her. She's not sure what she will do if he does.

                “You can trust me,” he says. 

                _Fuck those eyes_ , she thinks.

                “I don’t know,” she says, relenting. “I—I’ve been having—”

                _I think your roommate’s like a hundred years old but that’s impossible right? Even if it explains literally everything it’s still impossible._

                “Dreams,” he says for her, when she trails off. “Varric told me.”

                She looks at him incredulously. “ _Varric_?”

                “Merrill told him.” He smiles a little at her expression, taking advantage of her distraction to step over her piles of paper and closer, still. “You are such an expert at meddling that it’s no surprise our friends have picked it up.”

                He’s close enough and she’s staring, rather intensely, at his lips. She’s thinking about the other part of her dream, the first part, and wonders if Fenris would ever tie her hands above her head and have his way with her. Maybe he’d use that bandanna she bought him.

                “And speaking in elven,” Fenris continues. “What have you been dreaming about?”

                She feels warm.

                “ _Hawke_ ,” he says, urgently, and then he does touch her, his hand hot on her shoulder—

                She reels. When Fear grabbed her, his laughter saved her. Now that warmth that was in her core is back and it’s rising, burning, and this time she’s not covered in an inferno of her own making but she might as well be. Because he’s _here_ , in this place where there’s so much pain and understanding and words of lust and rage spilled between them, and she makes a fist in his shirt and pulls herself forward to taste his lips.

                He stiffens. He pulls away and breathes, _“Marian_ ,” against her lips, but she pulls him back, her lower lip moving to drag along the lyrium lines that curl there, and she knows their taste in her heart so she _moans_ to have it in her mouth again. Where it belongs. Where he belongs.

                He pulls away again, with such reluctance but it makes that warmth in her chest flare, in indignation, in rage. _Mine_ , it is saying, and she finds the sentiment echoed on her lips, even if she can’t make the words leave her throat.

                “You are not well,” he says, and she’s reminded of his breath on her neck in the kitchen.

                “Don’t worry,” she replies, “it’s not contagious.”

                He curses. She kisses him again, and something in him _gives_ and he’s kissing her back, hard, desperate, and she finds her other hand wandering to his belt buckle, the flutter of light and the tingle of the lyrium beneath his shirt at her fingertips, the climbing heat of his skin around it.

                Then her music blares, the screech and howl of heavy metal burning away the silence marred only by the sound of their lips and moans, and Fenris spins as he shoves Hawke behind him, roughly, every muscle in his body taut as he searches the room for the intruder.

                Hawke catches a glimpse of a familiar face—a washed out human boy in washed out clothing—and she stares incredulously as he lowers his hand from the stereo controls on the wall. Fenris sees him as well, and he curses in Tevene before relaxing just a little, before releasing his one-armed grip on Hawke.

                “Demon,” he says. It’s not quite a snarl—it sounds too resigned for that.

                “Not me,” Cole says, looking directly at Hawke, right before he winks out of existence.

                Fenris stands straight, uncoils himself from the spring of his battle-ready stance, and Hawke brings a shaking hand to her mouth. That intense heat gone, the overwhelming spiral of desire and possessiveness eclipsing all rational thought replaced by a chill in her core, the shaking of her limbs.

                _Holy shit_ , she thinks. _What the fuck was that?_

“I’m sorry,” she blurts, even as Fenris turns around. “I’m—”

                She backs into the fireplace. Winces. But she keeps her gaze on his bare feet, and when she sees him shift she closes her eyes, her fingers curling into fists and her shoulders shaking.

                But then his hands are on her shoulders, and she feels the press of his forehead against hers. When he brings a hand to her face it’s to push up her chin with a delicate touch, a single curled finger, so she meets his gaze.

                There’s an understanding, worried smile on the corners of his lips, in the flicker of his eyes as they search her own.

                “You are not yourself tonight,” he says to her. His voice is rough, his tone slightly distant, but he is still so close, and the smile speaks for itself.

                She stares up into his eyes and leans into his touch, just for a moment.

                She sits at the island in the kitchen while Fenris finds a bottle of wine—she thinks her mother must have bought it, ages ago, and it got lost in the chaos of their lives since coming to this place. He pours Hawke and himself a generous glass each. It’s warm and dark and she prefers the bite of whiskey, but Fenris sits next to her and she drinks both for courage and to hide her shame.

                “Aevalle’s mystery apostate said it was because we fell through a tear in the veil,” she says with a low voice, surprisingly even. As if what she’s just attempted with Fenris has dulled her to what’s been going on; if he’s still sitting here with her after that, then this confession might not be so bad.

                Still, her hand shakes as she brings the glass to her lips again.

                “But I’ve been having dreams ever since. And sometimes I remember bits of them and sometimes I don’t—and I started writing them in my phone when I woke up.”

                She expects him to glance at the chaos of papers on the floor behind them. He doesn’t. Instead his hand is on her knee, the other on his wine, and he’s watching her face, watching every move she makes with a precise, intense expression.

                His thumb draws circles on her knee. It’s comforting.

                “I think—I thought at first—” She exhales. “I think some of them are Aevalle’s mom. And some of them are Aevalle’s. And they don’t always make sense but—”

                She shudders. Fenris squeezes her knee, gently.

                “Remember when Abelas talked about her mission in Tevinter?”

                His eyes narrow, just a little, at the mention of Aevalle’s mystery lover.

                “Did she ever tell you what it was?”

                He tilts his head to the side. “Did you see it in your dreams?”

                She nods, distantly. _You were there_ , she wants to say. But her mouth is dry, and she finds she can’t say anything else.

                When the bottle is drained between them, Fenris leads her up the stairs to her room. They argue, briefly, about beds and _she has a guest room Fenris_ but instead of anything rational he shoves her mattress off its box spring, onto the floor.

                “I know a thing or two about memories not your own,” he says when she’s stunned to silence, and her cheeks burn at words that are months old, hanging between them as if they were spoken yesterday.

                He curses, and the tips of his ears darken. He looks as if he is about to apologize, but he says instead, “You look awful. I will not allow you to get up once I am asleep and continue whatever nonsense you have going on in the living room. It can wait until morning.”

                _Like a guard dog_ , she thinks, unfairly. But the mattress is on the floor, and she doesn’t think he would have ever spoken to Danarius as he does to her.

                When she does wake again, sunlight is pouring in through a gap in her curtains, bright and red with rising. Fenris still clutches her to his chest, and she can smell only him—his sweat and his worry, lyrium that smells like citrus and the numbing sensation of mint of maybe basil, under her ever-present smell of oil, butter, Orlesian herbs and the sharp smell of flames off a gas stove. Her chest feels warm to bursting as she pulls back enough to look at his sleeping face, his long dark lashes and his hair spilling back to reveal the dots on his forehead, less a private secret to the world than the look of peace about him, his brows for once free of worry.

                Something stirs in the corner of her vision, and Hawke glances up still, uncertain. There’s something like a wisp floating overhead, something like a spirit or...

                Its form twists and shifts until it looks a little like an elven woman—a little like an elven woman with Fenris’ nose, the set of his eyes in her face. She shimmers, the lines of her face the pale yellow of straw and translucent in the light of dawn that falls on Fenris’ face. There is something warm and kind in her expression, even though Hawke can only make out the edges of it.

                _What a nice dream_ , Hawke thinks, feeling strangely comforted. She rests her head in the crook of Fenris’ neck, breathes in the smell of him and the smell of the kitchen he works in that still lingers on his skin, and she falls asleep once again.

                When she wakes again, it’s due to the vibration of her phone. She doesn’t grab for it immediately—the bed is empty beside her but it’s still slightly warm under the back of her hand. She can hear the sound of cupboards being rummaged through downstairs, and she smells breakfast on the stove—eggs and butter. She doesn’t keep the fridge stocked with much else.

                She rolls back onto her front and looks at the phone—it’s an email from Aveline, and it honestly takes Hawke a good minute of staring at the screen to remember what it’s about.

                _Took me a while to find but I think this is what you’re looking for. There was a pretty big breakout that night, uncovered some mess about petty criminals, mostly elven and Qunari, being sold to Tevinter. These were stacked in the flooded part of the basement. Probably part of the coverup._

_And something tells me you won’t be too surprised by this, but your friend with all the piercings... is this her mother? Looks an awful lot like her. Let me know, there’s a box with her things on my desk. A jacket, a scarf, a paperclip and two pennies. Maybe the jacket at least has sentimental value._

_Donnic said you looked tired. Let’s leave the late night detective work to the professionals, hm?_

_Aveline_

                She opens the image attachments with clammy hands. The first is her father’s mugshot—and she almost laughs, he looks so ridiculous. He’s got swelling around his left eye and the beginnings of a bruise, his lip is split but he’s grinning like an idiot. There is nothing unusual in the written report of his arrest— _assaulting an officer, interfering with an arrest_. _Being an ass_ has been scrawled in a different hand, then scratched out. She does laugh at that.

                The next, and her heart nearly drops out of her chest.

                If she had any doubts, this picture thoroughly blows them out the window. The person holding the card is staring down the camera with absolutely murderous intent, her green eyes burning with rage. Her hair is dark and shaved close to her skull, but the _vallaslin_ is the same, curling up over and past her hairline like a declaration, like a warning. Her curved nose is broken something awful, and her lips below it are smeared with blood. There’s a cut above her left eyebrow, long and not pretty, and it’s still bright and red, clotted and fresh blood spilled all over the left side of her face.

                _Name: Unknown. Age: Unknown._

                Her charges are—Hawke raises an eyebrow. From breaking curfew and refusing to show identification to assaulting an officer and resisting arrest, there’s an impressive list of them, most of them likely false.

                _Identifying Marks: Dalish Blood Writing, Blue. Scar on left palm._

                Hawke looks again at the picture before pulling up the photos already in her phone. She has one of Aevalle sitting next to Fenris—he’s too busy arguing with Anders to notice and protest, and she’s kept it because it’s one of the few she has of him—and she pinches and pulls to zoom in as best she can.

                It’s blurry and partially hidden by her hair and the way her head is turned, but over Aevalle’s left eyebrow is a scar; faint, long and thin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comment Varric makes about Shartan is a reference to a common/hotly debated belief among Andrastians that Shartan and Andraste were lovers during their rebellion against Tevinter. (This is referenced in the Masked Empire, and I love it so much that it's a total headcanon) Basically he's calling Fenris "Romeo," but very specifically in reference to a human/elven relationship. I'm sure Varric is too amused by the parallels and is super proud of himself for finally working that one into a conversation.
> 
> [OH and if anyone is interested, you can read Hawke's notes on her dreams here. That might help clarify what she saw for some people if you're interested.](http://dinoswrites.tumblr.com/post/124011731916/whetstone-extra-hawkes-notes-on-her-dreams)


	38. New Message from Varric Tethras

_New Message from Varric Tethras_

-{ Okay I actually can’t believe I am saying this

-{ Writing this

-{ Whatever

-{ But please tell me you fucked the elf

-{ Also that you’re alive and not dead because he   
    sounded pretty freaked out last night

-{ But more importantly tell me you fucked the elf   
    because we are all seriously sick of your shit

                -{ Varric I fucked up

-{ Hawke

                -{ We uh

                -{ Snuggled?

-{ Are you fucking kidding me

                -{ Okay in my defence it has been a very strange couple   
                  of months

                -{ And I tried okay

                -{ But then Cole interrupted us

-{ The kid?

-{ Not a chance

-{ He knows you two need this probably more than  
    any of us

                -{ He did!

                -{ He turned my music on full blast and scared the shit   
                  out of me

                -{ And then he said something cryptic and vanished

-{ I mean that last bit is him for sure

-{ But that doesn’t make any sense

                -{ Well

                -{ I might have been pushing

-{ Pushing

                -{ Fenris might have tried to say I wasn’t feeling well

                -{ And as such hinted that he didn’t want to take advantage

                -{ And I might have hinted that I wanted him to take   
                  advantage of me in as many ways as possible

                -{ To quote Isabela

                -{ And right when he gave in Cole showed up

-{ Hawke for fuck’s sake

                -{ I know I feel awful

                -{ I said I’d give him time but holy fuck all I ever do is the   
                  opposite

                -{ I’m a terrible friend

-{ That’s not what I meant

-{ If I knew all you two needed was a little push in   
    Broody’s direction I’d have shoved you both off   
    a cliff ages ago

                -{ Varric that’s not funny

-{ You’re right it’s a tragedy

-{ I’m the one who’s been telling everyone to give   
    you space and wait it out

-{ When I should have just let Isabela handcuff you   
    both to the bed

                -{ Speaking of

-{ Please don’t

                -{ Very funny

                -{ Did you get that email I sent you?

-{ Didn’t look at it yet

-{ Because it’s not about you and Fenris getting back  
    together and therefore is not important at the   
    moment

                -{ Just read it, please

-{ Holy shit

-{ You scared me

-{ I thought that murderous elven chick was Aevalle  
    for a minute

                -{ Yeah

-{ Holy shit they look similar

-{ Like freaky similar

-{ Maybe if her nose wasn’t broken

-{ Shit she looks like someone hung her out to dry in  
    a hurricane

-{ Where did you get this?

                -{ I asked Aveline

-{ Obviously

-{ I mean why did you ask Aveline for it?

                -{ My dad was arrested with her

-{ Your dad?

                -{ Yeah

-{ Wait you think this is Aevalle’s mom or something?

                -{ Or something

-{ Well shit have you told her?

-{ Girl could probably use some good news these days

-{ If you call “hey our parents got arrested together   
   once” good news

                -{ I don’t think that’s a good idea

-{ Well I’m glad it’s your turn to be suspiciously   
    cryptic now

-{ And why exactly not?

-{ Hello? Hawke?

                -{ Sorry

                -{ Just got a text from Fenris

-{ Is he apologizing for not fucking you senseless   
    last night?

                -{ Technically it was this morning

-{ Nuance

-{ What is he texting you about?

                -{ Well he started off by saying I need to keep real food in   
                  my fridge instead of just caffeinated beverages and eggs

-{ Yes you also need beer

                -{ And um

                -{ Then he said if he’s going to cook for me again he wants  
                   there to be a full fridge

                -{ That he’s good but even he needs ingredients

-{ Did he make you a post almost sex breakfast?

                -{ I mean it was lunchtime

                -{ But yes he did

-{ And you neglected to mention this because?

                -{ Um?

-{ Hawke

-{ This is Very Important Information

                -{ I’m sorry?

-{ Hawke

-{ He literally stands in front of a stove and makes   
    things hot for a living

-{ For what is only half decent money

-{ And he has just told you he wants to do it for you

-{ In the future

-{ On his days off

-{ When he could be doing literally anything but   
    what he has to do at work for ten hours a day

-{ And he didn’t even have sex with you

-{ Are you still paying attention to these?

                -{ Sorry I was making food-related innuendo at Fenris

-{ Innuendo

                -{ Um well I started with a joke about eating pain for breakfast

                -{ Because pain is Orlesian for bread

-{ Yes I know you’re hilarious

                -{ And then he was saying something about I need to eat   
                  real food every once in a while

-{ You made a sausage joke didn’t you

                -{ I might have

-{ Was it awful

                -{ It wasn’t great

-{ It was terrible wasn’t it

                -{ Maybe

                -{ Fenris said he thought it was funny

-{ Fenris has a worse sense of humour than you do

                -{ By worse you mean amazing

-{ That doesn’t fit in that sentence at all

                -{ Rude

-{ My point is

-{ Maybe the elf is not so adverse to bumping uglies  
    as you seem to think

                -{ Varric we talked about this

                -{ I’m supposed to be giving him space remember?

-{ Yes but then you made terrible sausage innuendos

                -{ Amazing sausage innuendos

                -{ Fenris said so

-{ He’s lying to you about the quality of your sexual   
    food puns

-{ See if that’s not love then I don’t know what is

-{ Hawke?

-{ Are you ignoring me for Fenris again?

                -{ Haha what

                -{ Varric love

                -{ That’s

                -{ You’re a kidder! You Tethras you.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you had any doubts that Fenris and Hawke are going through the steps of their romance but slightly different all over again then here's a text from Varric about whether or not they fucked. (It amuses me if it amuses no one else, alright?)
> 
> Just a quick, lighter chapter because shit is about to get seriously real. Not sure when I'm going to get the next one up, but it's one I've been looking forward to writing for a while and I'm really, really excited to have finally reached this point in the story!
> 
> [If you missed it last chapter, you can read Hawke's notes on her dreams here. That might help clarify what she saw for some people if you're interested.](http://dinoswrites.tumblr.com/post/124011731916/whetstone-extra-hawkes-notes-on-her-dreams)


	39. Don't Go Alone

Fenris and Aevalle’s apartment is looking a little more lived in now; their increased wages since summer started allowing for an accumulation of more belongings that scatter the apartment. Aevalle has cook books scattered across their coffee table with arrows she's in the middle of fletching—she can’t buy them because _no self respecting Dalish applies for a hunting licence_ , she said with a smirk before running out the door to work—and empty mugs stained with coffee. She's hung posters from bands she likes on the walls, and Fenris has two dog eared cookbooks and a pristine copy of _Tale of a Slave_ stacked, neatly, on the corner of the coffee table. They have a solitary house plant sitting on the windowsill, under watered.

               Fenris is pacing the living room, sending wary glances at the window where the curtains are filtering the late afternoon sun. There’s a boy who looks like a ghost sitting on the arm of the couch and rocking, slightly, back and forth, bouncing his knee with every slap of Fenris’ bare feet on the floor.

               “Is she alone?” Fenris asks, slowly.

               Cole tilts his head to the side. “Lonely.”

               Fenris makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

               “Since Mother died. Guarding, guarded. After all this time it’s still raw—”

               He snaps. “That’s not—” He rubs his face with the palm of his hand. “That’s not what I need to know,” he says, slower, trying to be patient, but the knowledge that his past has chased him here _and he has invited it in_ is crawling all over his skin.

               “You want to know if she’s betrayed you. If she’s a lie.” Cole stares off into the distance and seems to consider something, intensely. “She remembers you with sticky fingers and soft eyes. In your message you called yourself _Fenris_ and it hurts, deep in the place in her heart she buried Mother.”

               Cole blinks, slowly, and his gaze rests somewhere behind Fenris’ eyes.

               “I can tell you that,” he says. “The rest is all mixed up.”

               “Then what good are you?” Fenris snarls, and _he needs to do something_ so he slams his fist on the wall, hard, the lines of lyrium that run up his arm sparking bright and erratic.

               Cole says, gently, “Don’t go alone.”

               He closes his eyes and focuses on breathing, for a moment. When he turns again, Cole has vanished, Fenris’ phone sitting on the arm of the couch where the spirit boy sat moments before.

 

“Hey, Hawke,” Varric says as he climbs into the passenger seat of Hawke’s hatchback. “Nice day we’re having— _fuck_!”

               As soon as he has the door closed, Hawke grabs him by the ear and yanks, _hard_. She releases him  just as quickly, and he drops back into the seat, hand going to his ear and an incredulous expression on his face.

               “What the fuck, Hawke?”

               “You little shit,” she says, and Varric visibly shrinks back into the seat from the force of her scowl.

               “Okay whatever I did, it was probably worth it.”

               “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

               Varric glances uneasily at the traffic slowly piling up behind her vehicle while he buckles up. “Hawke,” he says, “maybe you should—”

               “You were sending secret emails to Fenris’ sister and you never told me!”

               “Yeah, that sounds like me. Drive, Hawke.”

               She does not. She gestures wildly with both hands, moves as if to grab his ear again, then mimes wringing his neck. “That _sounds like you_? Varric Tethras, this is—this is the most ridiculous—how could you keep this from me? He’s been going slowly crazy for months now and you didn’t even tell me what it was about? And you knew!”

               Her ranting is interrupted by a car horn. She leans out her open window to yell, “Fuck off I’m having a goddamn crisis here!”

               “Going crazy might be mild hyperbole...”

               “Fine!” she yells out the car window, her hands white-knuckled on the wheel. “See! I’m driving! Are you happy now?”

               “Hawke,” says Varric, cautiously. “Maybe you should just park properly and we can talk about this.”

               “He texted me, Varric!” she continues, barely shoulder checking and forgetting to signal as she changes lanes. There’s another car horn, held long and aggressive, and Varric grabs the door handle. “I check my phone halfway through my shift and I’ve got a text from Fenris saying _hey I’m meeting my sister at noon I think it’s a trap would you possibly be there for me?_ ”

               “You’re taking it well,” Varric says through grit teeth.

               “Taking it _well_?” she parrots, incredulously. “Varric I left some seventeen year old kid to mix the brioche! Unsupervised! I am one pimply teenager falling in the mixer away from losing my job, failing my internship and flipping burgers for a living!”

               “You are aware that you’ve inherited a ridiculous amount of money and that you’ll never have to work a day in your life, right?”

               “Says the guy who literally inherited a bread empire.”

               “A marginally lucrative bread empire that I work as hard as possible to appear not to be running.”

               “Point is,” Hawke says. “Fucking hell, _get off the road if you can’t drive the speed limit!_ Point is, Varric, that you were concerned enough to tell Fenris I’m having crazy dreams but not concerned enough to share that today might be the day Danarius steals him back?”

               “Or,” Varric says, defensively, “he meets up with his sister and they have a perfectly normal family reunion.”

               Hawke looks away from the road long enough to give Varric _the look_.

               “It could happen! I mean, Dorian’s dad didn’t steal him away to Tevinter when he was in town last month!”

               “Yeah, Varric, I think that whole situation is a little bit different.”

               Varric sighs. “I know that, my point is—my point is someone has to be optimistic for Broody’s sake.”

               “You do that,” says Hawke, her knuckles white on the steering wheel and her expression grim. “The rest of us will just be prepared.”

               “Hawke,” says Varric, incredulous. “You’re not _worried_ , are you?”

               “Everyone else,” Hawke says, “has had _months_ to freak out about this, and I have, she glances at a street sign they’re passing under, “six blocks.”

               “We have literally fought a dragon,” Varric says, and she can see him grinning at her from the corner of her eyes. “And an ancient elven god, Fear demons, Pride demons...”

               “The ancient elven god kicked our asses.”

               “Some old guy from Tevinter—some _hypothetical_ old guy from Tevinter—will probably be a cake walk in comparison.”

               “And that dragon was really sick.”

               “Now you’re just being difficult.”

               “And most of us had weapons—Varric,” she hits the breaks a little too hard for a red light, and they both jerk forward. “Varric, what happens if this goes to shit?”

               “Then we all hail our new Tevinter overlord.”

               “ _Varric._ ”

               “ _Hawke_ ,” he mimicks.

               “I’m being serious.”

               “Why?” Varric leans back in his seat and smiles up at her. “If it does, then we’ll figure out what happens next. We always do.”

 

They park in the school lot across the street, where Fenris and Aevalle are waiting for them. Aevalle is on her phone as they approach, a scowl on her features. Hawke tries not to stare at the place behind her dark hair where there’s a scar just over her left eyebrow, or to examine her nose too closely, to see if there’s any signs of once being broken.

               “Anders isn’t picking up,” she says as they approach, hanging up her phone. She’s sitting cross-legged on the hood of Fenris’ car, her brow furrowed and her nose wrinkled slightly with her scowl.

               Fenris, leaning more than sitting next to her, has his arms crossed and his body deceptively slouched. His eyes are darting at every movement of their surroundings, and Hawke can make out the tension in his limbs—he’s not trying to look small, he’s ready to spring into action if he spots something wrong.

               “I’m sure he’s just busy, Bluebird,” Varric says. “If we really need him, he’ll come.”

               “We do not,” Fenris grumbles under his breath. He’s glancing up at Hawke from under his hair, and something in his shoulders seems to relax when she meets his gaze.

               And there are those puppy dog eyes Merrill likes to tease him about, she thinks, her stomach doing little flips at the tiny little smile at the corner of his lips.

               “I... thank you for coming,” he says.

               “What? Oh, you know me, always up for meeting everyone’s extended family. Or kicking slaver ass, this could still go either way.”

               He snorts a brief, low laugh. “It was... short notice.”

               “What? Me? I wasn’t doing anything.” She blinks away visions of a pimpled teenage boy spinning around in the industrial mixer, his thick glasses askew on his face.

               “He didn’t fall in the mixer,” says Cole, suddenly standing just next to Hawke where there was only empty air before. “I would know.”

               Hawke feels her cheeks grow warm. Fenris is still smiling. She smiles back and adjusts her plaid shirt, pulls down on the hem of the tank top underneath it, feeling the need to keep her hands busy.

               Varric is rolling his eyes and making exaggerated gagging motions where Fenris can’t see him.

               “Alright,” Aevalle says. “So still no Anders. Cassandra parked her truck around the corner, and she’s at the bar with Bela right now. She says it’s really busy inside but Varania seems to be alone.” She glances up at Fenris, biting her lip. “I can still call Merrill,” she says.

               Fenris scowls. “No.”

               “And Dorian has the day off.”

               “No.”

               “And Bull—”

               “Bluebird,” Varric says, putting a hand on her knee. “It’s going to be fine.”

               Aevalle clenches and unclenches her left hand. “Yeah,” she says, slowly. “It’s going to be fine.”

               “Well,” Varric says, rubbing his hands together, “let’s not keep this charming family reunion waiting! Come on, Broody, don’t look so miserable, I’m sure she’ll only pinch your cheek a little bit.”

               “She won’t,” Cole says with certainty, and Fenris gets off the car and follows Varric, a sour expression on his face.

               Hawke lingers a little longer, waiting for Aevalle to slip off the car.

               “Hey,” Hawke says. “When this is—when we’re done here...”

               “Yeah?” Aevalle frowns. “Hawke, what is it?”

               “I just uh—can we talk?”

               Aevalle blinks and brushes her hair out of her eyes. “About?”

               “Uh—” Hawke doesn’t know how to answer that, so she settles for running her hand through her hair. “Stuff,” she settles on, weakly.

               She can’t quite meet Aevalle’s gaze, and she wonders if she’s imagining the suspicion there.

               The Hanged Man is crowded, full of students on the summer schedule and people who work in the area on their lunch break. Absurdly crowded, Hawke thinks, and she looks up at the board above the bar and sees the drinks priced even cheaper than normal. _Beat the Heat Drink Specials_ , right above Bela and Cassandra’s heads.

               She wonders if that should set off an alarm, _the Hanged Man never has drink specials_ , but Fenris freezes in place in front of her, and she almost runs right into him.

               “You,” Fenris says, and there’s something in his voice Hawke has never heard before.

               Beside her, Aevalle ducks her head, moves just enough so that her face is obscured by the curtain of her hair and Fenris’ shoulder.

               “It really is you,” says an elven woman at the corner table. Her face is stern, with dark circles under her eyes and red hair. There’s something about her nose, the way her eyes are set in her face—but other than that, Hawke would never have guessed their relation.

               The bar is _too_ crowded, and _too_ loud, and there’s something about the way that Varania isn’t looking at Fenris that’s making Hawke’s heart race. Beside her, she can feel Aevalle tense up as she realises it too.

               “We played in our Master’s courtyard as our mother worked,” Fenris is saying, and his voice sounds so soft that Hawke can feel her heart breaking even as she feels a chill crawling up the back of her spine. “You called me...”

               “Leto,” Varania says. “That’s your name.”

               “What’s wrong? Why are you so...?”

               “ _Lethallin_!” Aevalle pleads, her voice high and panicked, and Hawke looks to the stairs that lead to the upper level.

               There’s a Tevinter man coming down the stairs, but Hawke doesn’t get a good look at him because the air to her left bursts with electricity, to her right with frost, and people are screaming.

               They’re all separated by the press and rush of bodies, and Hawke has to raise her arms to protect her face. She catches a glimpse of Aevalle slipping in between two broad-shouldered Vashoth women, nimble and quick and the Anchor burning in her palm, and she hears Cassandra yell, Varric curse, and a snarl from Fenris—

               There’s the hum in the air of magic, the Veil being warped, and Hawke yells, “Get out of the goddamn way!” before she calls flames to her hands, bright and wild, and the crowd splits around her. She has only a moment to breathe before a Tevinter man in jeans and a hoodie is firing lightning at her from across the room.

               She surges spirit magic into her barrier and charges. When he’s readying another attack she exhales and lunges forward with a Fade Step, frost evaporating from her arm as she blinks through the space between them and her fist, wreathed in flame, collides with his face. Next is a hard and fast knee in his stomach, and as he crumples she brings both hands down on the top of his head. She hears the _crack_ of his skull and she whirls on her heel to face the rest of the room.

               It seems like the civilians have cleared out, but there are at least six mages and an absurd number of men with knives here. Dressed in a variety of casual and work clothing, they’re not wearing the suits Hawke normally sees them in but she thinks the mages at least must be Venatori, maybe half the men who are not and the rest must work for Danarius. Fenris has five on him at once and the lyrium is burning so bright it’s hard to look at—two of the mages are circling, just behind three men with long knives, trying to keep Fenris’ burning fists at a distance, but she doesn’t know if either of them is Danarius. Cassandra and Isabela are back to back, Cassandra’s shirt sleeve smoking and Bela with a lightning burn all across her left arm. Cole is covering Varric, already down and struggling to rise, and Aevalle is fighting two Venatori at once, and even as she deflects a blow aimed at her face there’s another coming at her stomach, and she barely twists out of the way in time to avoid it.

               That cursory glance is all the break she gets, because she hears steps coming behind her. Hawke whirls with a yell to deal with them, fists wreathed in flame.

               A blast of frost magic hits her, square in the chest, and Hawke staggers back, reeling, trying feebly to pull up her barrier against the assault.

               “ _This_ is all Kirkwall has to offer in resistance?” her attacker drolls, his voice making Hawke’s skin crawl. His accent is thick Tevene, and it sounds much closer to Dorian’s than it does to Fenris’. “Some unarmed children? This poor excuse for a mage? It is a wonder my little wolf has evaded me this long.”

               “He’s not yours!” she yells, and she pulls _hard_ at the Veil. Her flames sputter to life again and she _pushes_ forward, into the blizzard raging at her front, and her barrier falters but the ice is just rain hitting her in the face, now. She pushes forward with her body, trying to close the distance, and she grins as she feels her attacker’s magic falter under her onslaught.

               His blizzard fails, and she can see him now. Pale for a man of Tevinter, with an expression that curls into a snarl and features that might have been handsome, once. His hair is grey and his ears seem to have fallen in on themselves, a poor imitation of slender elven points.

               He has the audacity to smirk at her, and she knows this must be Danarius. “Do I detect a note of jealousy? I’ll admit, the boy is quite skilled.”

               Something hot snaps to life deep in her core, and Hawke’s lip curls in disgust as she snarls, “ _He is not yours_ ,” once again, and the Veil warps around her, and her flames burn _bright_ , white and crackling with rage as she surges forward.

               Then lightning hits her exposed back, and Hawke falls, aware of nothing but light and pain until she hits the floor.

               She’s not sure how long she’s dazed for, but she feels a hand on the back of her neck and her fire flares again, bright and hot, and whoever’s trying to yank her up is screaming, recoiling. She crawls up to her hands and knees, then jerks upright, gasping, trying to grab onto anything for support—

               Something collides with her back, and she’s on the floor again. She tries to fight it—a boot, she thinks, but another wave of electricity hits her, and there’s someone _laughing_. Flames sputter at her fingertips, her focus scattered and her nails digging into the floor as she screams.

               She thinks she hears someone chanting—reading, intoning, she’s not sure—and when she opens her eyes she can see Cole flickering in and out of sight, like the flame of a candle, until he stumbles into a rune on the floor. It burns bright, white, and he freezes in place.

               There’s shouting in Tevene all around her, and Hawke closes her eyes and focuses her flames on the floor. The carpet burns, and the smell is _awful_ and synthetic, and then the wood underneath catches flame and the floor buckles underneath her. Whoever’s got his foot on her back is thrown forward, and Hawke curls in on herself just in time to avoid being pinned beneath him.

               She scrambles to her feet, her limbs still twitching with the burn of the lightning, and she has a brief moment to scan the room—Aevalle is somehow still on her feet, fighting a mage like a whirlwind as he tries to maintain the binding on Cole, cursing at her. Isabela is slumped backwards across an overturned table, her head rolling to the side as she tries to move, and Hawke winces as she sees Cassandra thrown out the window onto the patio by a fireball.

               Fenris is surrounded, and his movements are frantic, wild. His blows still land hard but they lack the control she is so used to seeing him fight with. There is fear in his expression, under all the rage, and when his face twists she can’t quite figure out the difference between them.

               Hawke takes one step towards him, then another, and then someone crashes into her from her left. She cries out when she hits the ground, and she tries to call on anything at all but her attacker grabs her hands and forces them behind her back, his knee at her throat, and _she can’t breathe—_

               Fenris yells her name. Through one eye she can see him turn, see the panic in his expression—

               —and then there’s a knife clean through his chest.

               For a long, horrible moment, Hawke can’t hear or feel anything. Fenris wavers in place, lyrium flickering all up and down his arms and his neck, _so_ weak, and their eyes meet, and his lips move but she can’t make out what he’s trying to say.

               Fenris hits the ground, and Aevalle _screams_.

               Whoever’s got her releases her just enough that Hawke can roll her head over and look. Aevalle is the last one standing, and the rage on her face is enough to make Hawke’s blood run cold. The anchor sparks and its green lightning engulfs her whole body for one moment—and then she’s shoving her palm against the man in front of her, her face twisted into a snarl. He falls, screaming, clutching at his face and batting away things that aren’t there. When another man comes up behind her, wielding a knife, Hawke feels the Veil crackle then tear with a flare of the anchor, and Aevalle is behind him, disarming him in the same motion she uses to run the knife across his throat.

               Lightning arcs towards her from where Fenris lies, surrounded, and that green energy leaps up, cracks with a force that rattles the windows and the lightning is directed down, harmlessly aside.

               After that display, there is a heartbeat where there is only breathing, the ringing in Hawke’s ears.

               The men surrounding Fenris move to attack her, and with a flare of the anchor she winks out of existence.

               Hawke hears the snap of the Veil ripping apart and coming together somewhere above her, and the man on top of her screams. Hawke feels his blood, hot and wet, hit the back of her neck, and she rolls to the side as his corpse falls from her.

               “Get Fenris to Merrill,” she yells, and then she’s vanished again.

               Hawke manages to scramble to her feet, gasping for breath, and she looks over to where Fenris lies.

               Varania, forgotten in the chaos of the battle, is kneeling over him, her expression drawn and her face white as a sheet.

               Hawke stumbles her way over to him—once she thinks someone is coming for her, but then there’s a _crack_ in the air and a scream and she doesn’t look, just keeps going, until she practically falls on top of Fenris, kneeling in his blood.

               “Fuck,” she says, grabbing at his face— _there’s so much blood_. “Fuck— _Fenris_.”

               He doesn’t even stir. There’s a wheezing sound with every shallow breath he makes, every shuddering, _weak_ movement of his chest. Healing magic flutters at Hawke’s fingertips, unfocused, frantic, but she doesn’t know what to do with it. There’s so much blood—

               Behind her, Aevalle screams again, this time in pain. Hawke looks over her shoulder, wide-eyed, and Danarius has a knife to his wrist, blood dripping from the blade. There’s the smell of copper in the air as Aevalle falls, screaming, her limbs twisting in pain even though not a soul is touching her.

               What’s left of Danarius’ men jump on her, keeping her on her knees even as she struggles to stand. The anchor sparks angry and bright, but one of them is strapping something metal to her arm and there are runes on it, flaring, and the anchor stills.

               Hawke flinches as Danarius steps forward, moving to shield Fenris with her body, but he walks right past her and up to Aevalle, an incredulous expression on his face.

               “Well,” he says, healing his wrist with a careless gesture. “I hardly believe it, but here you are, _rattus_.”

               Aevalle glares up at him, her lip curling.

               “Apparently I was asking you all the wrong questions—twenty years ago?”

               Aevalle does not reply, her eyes burning with hate.

               “Well,” he says, smirking, “I will certainly remedy that mistake. She’s coming with us. Kill the others. And someone heal my slave before he bleeds to death on the floor.”

               “Wait,” Aevalle says.

               Danarius, half-turned, pauses.

               “You’re not young any longer, _shemlen_ ,” she says.

               He faces her once again, a single eyebrow raised.

               “I can give you what you want,” she says, “easily. Willingly.”

               “You are not in a position to bargain.”

               “But I am.” Aevalle straightens, strains against the men holding her. “I know what you are, _shemlen._ _Intimately._  I’ve _seen_ how you hold to your word, despicable thing that you are. And you know how I hold to mine.”

               His eyes narrow.

               “You want to live forever?”

               His expression is calculating. “Go on,” he says, slowly.

               Aevalle nods her head towards where Fenris lies. “Leave him. Leave them.”

               “Leave my greatest creation behind?”

               “You’ll have an endless supply of lifetimes to create an army of lyrium bodyguards.” Aevalle’s eyes narrow, her expression hardening to something not unlike that mugshot from all those years ago. “He stays here, or I tell you nothing, and you continue to die a little more, one day at a time, and even having Fenris at your side will not save you from your inevitable decay.”

               “She is _ours_ ,” one of the mages spits. “You promised us this, Danarius.”

               “I think little of your absurd cult,” Danarius says. “You have been useful to a point—you may have her when I am finished with her.”

               The Venatori clenches his fists. “This was not the agreement. We helped you reclaim your  runaway slave—”

               “You damaged my rightful property. I will take the girl first in place of financial compensation.”

               “We need her to free him—”

               Lightning sparks bright from Danarius’ fingers, and the Venatori drops dead, twitching. At the same time, the other two mages and a few of the other fighters are quickly disposed of by those loyal to Danarius, knives across their throats or through their backs.

               Danarius sighs, more out of annoyance than anything else, and he turns to look at Fenris again. Something passes over his features that Hawke doesn’t quite read—but whatever it is, it makes her stomach roll with disgust.

               The he turns back to Aevalle, and says, “She’s coming with us. Leave the others.”

               Aevalle drops her head in relief. Hawke opens her mouth to protest, to say something, anything at all, but she feels a hand on her wrist. She looks up, startled, at Varania, pale and determined, her mouth set in a thin line.

               Danarius doesn’t even spare them a glance as he walks away, Aevalle stumbling along behind, led by Danarius’ men as she tries to look over her shoulder—tries to meet Hawke’s gaze and keep it, right up until they lead her out the front door.

               The door slams closed behind them, and Hawke goes for her phone in her back pocket. Cassandra stumbles back in through the window she was blown through, holding her head and cursing, and the rune binding Cole to one spot fades when the mage gurgling on the floor finally dies. He blinks out of existence without a word.

               “What the actual fuck,” Varric says, climbing to his feet, as Hawke presses her phone to her ear, listening to it ringing.

               “Come on come on come on,” she breathes.

               Isabela stumbles over to Hawke, and she swears under her breath. “That looks bad,” she says.

               “ _This is an automated voice messaging system..._ ”

               “Fuck!” Hawke swears, hanging up the phone. “Andraste’s tits, Anders, what the hell are you doing?”

               She drops her phone and calls on what mana she has left, frantic, reaching for the wound in Fenris’ chest. But Varania’s hand is there first, healing magic flowing from her fingertips—unsure, faltering, but there, working, and the bleeding slows.

               “I’m not—” Varania closes her eyes and swallows, hard. “I have no training. He needs someone stronger.”

               Hawke calls Anders again. Again, he doesn’t pick up.

               “Maker,” Varric breathes, stumbling up behind her. “Is he still not answering?”

               “Someone had better be dying,” Cassandra grumbles.

               “Fuck,” Isabela’s saying, “what am I gonna tell Merrill?”

               Hawke hangs up on her third attempt to call Anders. “Help me carry him,” she says, and Cassandra stoops down. Together they get Fenris up on their shoulders, although Bela stoops in to take over when Hawke nearly falls under his weight.

               Hawke pulls out her phone again and makes another call.

               “Hello? Hawke?”

               “Merrill,” Hawke says, and Isabela looks at her with alarm. “Merrill, shit just got real.”

               “What? What happened? Was his sister there?”

               “Danarius took Aevalle, Fenris is hurt, bad—”

               “He took—” Merrill’s voice falters on the other line.

               “Merrill? Merrill we’re doing all we can but we need a healer, a good one. Anders won’t answer his phone.”

               Merrill’s breath shakes on the other end of the line. “Of course,” she says, trying to keep her voice level and _failing_ , and it breaks Hawke’s heart. “Of course, I know someone. Bring him here, quickly. I’ll—I’ll meet you downstairs.”

               “You good to drive?” Hawke asks Cassandra.

               “What about Aevalle?” Cassandra asks. “Are we going after her?”

               “We can’t just let them take Bluebird,” Varric says. “The shit she was saying—there’s no way.”

               “And what are we doing with her?” Isabela asks, jerking her head back to Varania, where she stands, her hands hanging at her sides, blood dripping from her fingertips to the floor.

               Hawke looks at Fenris’ sister. To her credit, she does not look frightened, or ashamed. Her gaze flickers to Fenris, to the wound in his chest.

               “He will bleed out before you reach your friend if you kill me,” she says.

               Hawke can see the family resemblance in the set of her jaw.

               “Andraste’s—we’re not going to _kill you_.” Hawke goes to rub her face with her hand, but stops when she remembers Fenris’ blood is all over it. “You’re coming with us. Keep him alive. Varric,” she says, “Call Dorian and Bull. Tell them what happened, get everyone we can looking for Aevalle. We have to get Fenris to Merrill before he—” her voice falters. “We have to get Fenris to Merrill.”

               Hawke starts walking, and they all fall in line behind her. They leave the Hanged Man, turn the corner and there are sirens approaching from the other end of the road. It’s a miracle they reach the truck at all, stumbling and weak as they are. Fenris is stretched out in the back seat, his head resting on Hawke’s lap while Isabela and Varric climb into the front. She strokes his hair and tries to hush him as Varania, sitting with Fenris’ legs propped up on her lap, pours what little she knows about healing into his flesh, her expression forced blank, only the slight shaking of her hands betraying the mask she’s carved into her features.

               Fenris whimpers, slightly, with each movement of the truck, and sometimes he tries to speak, but it’s in Tevene, and Hawke doesn’t understand a word of it. Varania’s careful mask falters only once, when Fenris says something that makes him sound very young, but it’s back in place before Hawke can look at her properly, figure out what she is thinking.


	40. To Mar the Peace of This Place

Merrill meets them at the door to her apartment building, her eyes red and brimming with tears. But her mouth is set in a thin line, and her expression only sharpens when Isabela and Cassandra pull Fenris out of the backseat and Hawke and Varania follow, covered in his blood.

               “Kitten,” Isabela says at the sight of her.

               Merrill smiles. “It's not your fault,” she says, weakly.

               “Your healer upstairs?” Cassandra asks. 

               “Oh,” she says. “In a manner of speaking.” She looks agitated at the mention of it, and Hawke is on edge enough that just that sets off alarm bells.

               “Merrill, can we trust them?”

               She looks at Hawke, her lips thin. “I think so,” she says. “In spite of... Everything, I think so.”

               There is no elevator in Merrill's building, and it takes an absurd amount of cursing between Cassandra and Bela to get Fenris up the stairs. Hawke tries not to panic at every soft groan or shaking breath Fenris makes, every noise that escapes him when he is jostled. Tries; doesn't quite succeed.

               Merrill ushers them into her apartment and closes the door behind Varric, taking up the rear. Varania works on Fenris' wound again while he still hangs between Cassandra and Bela, limp. He murmurs in Tevene, or in something like Tevene, and Hawke feels panic rising as she looks around the apartment and says, “Merrill, there's no one here.”

               “Of course not,” Merrill says, agitated, as she crosses the room to her mirror.

               “Daisy,” Varric says, “he's going to bleed out if we don't—”

               Merrill says something to the mirror, waves her hand in front of it, and its surface changes. It shimmers, bright and Hawke blinks away the light. When she looks again, the mirror glows, gently, and there's a pattern not unlike water reflecting off its surface. 

               “Oh,” says Varric, incredulous. “It works now.”

               Cassandra eyes the mirror with blatant distrust, even as she takes the full weight of Fenris off Isabela. “This is what your Keeper…”

               “I have to go last,” Merrill says. She indicates Varania. “Please, go first.”

               The redheaded elf stiffens. “Why?” She says, suspicious.

               “The place we are headed is meant for elves,” Merrill explains, gently, urgently. “The others will feel dizzy, drained—we have to guide them, lethallan.”

               Varania straightens her clothing. “I am not your friend,” she says, stiffly. But she does not hesitate any longer, stepping forward. She passes through the mirror without looking back, and Hawke gapes as she slips through, as if walking through air. The surface of the mirror ripples once, slowly, and then it returns to its earlier appearance.

               “Alright,” Merrill says, “Cassandra, bring Fenris through next.”

               “What is the nature of this place?” Cassandra asks, pulling Fenris higher in her grip. “Should we bring him there while he’s injured?”

               “He'll feel better... I think.” Merrill makes a face that is anything but reassuring, but Cassandra sighs and steps through the mirror, pulling Fenris along with her. 

               Varric sends Hawke a long look before he heads through, then Isabela, and then it's Hawke's turn.

               It feels like passing through water, really. There's a moment of heavy resistance, a moment where the core of her being tells her something isn't quite right, and then it passes, and she's standing somewhere unnaturally bright. 

               She tries to shade her eyes, but the light seems to be coming from everywhere at once. She can't quite focus her vision, no matter where she looks or what she squints at, and she hears Cassandra and Bela speaking, softly, but their voices sound muffled, tinny.

               She feels a slim hand on her shoulder, and Merrill says, “Follow me.”

               Hawke walks as if through a fog. Later, she has trouble describing quite what she sees here; trees without leaves, dead branches and a thousand mirrors of all shapes and sizes, reflecting nothing. 

               Varania heals Fenris as they walk. Some colour seems to return to his cheeks just by being in this strange place; Merrill looks alive, bright, and she constantly has to double back and wait for them, her strides taking her farther somehow than the people who follow her. Varania has a healthy flush on her cheeks, and her magic is stronger, brighter. 

               Isabela has to switch out with Hawke after long, and it doesn't take much longer for Varania to relieve Cassandra. Hawke has to admit to herself that Fenris' sister seems to be taking more of the weight; it's a little hard to breathe, here. In whatever this place is.

               Once, Fenris is almost lucid. He rolls his head into Hawke's neck, and he breathes deeply, as if drinking in the smell of her. Then he mutters something in Tevene, and it makes Varania eye Hawke rather suspiciously. 

               No one speaks but Merrill, who mutters uneasily to herself to pass the silence. Hawke can't quite tell anyone later what she says, even though she's sure she hears all of it at the time. 

               Hawke can't tell how long they're in that strange place, but Merrill stands before another mirror and says something else, and then they pass through it as before, one by one. 

               Hawke almost gasps for breath as she pulls Fenris through the mirror. She finds herself in a cave—no, a building of some sort. The kind she might see in a movie and call a temple or a ruin. There's sunlight filtering through holes in the ceiling, in the walls, and it flickers green and yellow, filtered by broad leaves of tall, tall trees as the wind takes bloodied curls of her hair and throws them about her face. She can hear birdsong, wing beats and the rush of the wind in the trees far above them, like waves crashing on the shore, and all around her it smells like recent rain.

               Merrill passes through the mirror last, and as everyone else clusters around, unsure, she steps forward without hesitation, her bare feet making no sound as they sink into the soft lichen with each step. She makes her way toward the wide doorway at the end of the room, where a crumbling figure curls around its peak. Its features are long worn away by rain and weather, leaving only the impression of long ears, high cheekbones and a pronounced brow.

               Fenris breathes against Hawke’s neck again, shaking and so soft, and she hikes him up further in her grasp and follows Merrill, Varania falling in step as she supports Fenris’ other side.

               They walk through corridors that are dark and damp, passageways where the ceilings have long caved in and once it takes all their efforts combined to get Fenris over a pile of moss-covered rubble. Hawke steadies herself on a wall as they walk in darkness and she stumbles, almost losing grip of Fenris. Her hand brushes along something that is not stone, and she knows without looking it’s a fresco, ancient, crumbling between her fingers.

               _What even is a fresco_ , she thinks, and fists her hand on the wall as she steadies herself against the memory from her dream.

               “Merrill,” she chokes out, as Cassandra takes Fenris from her. “Merrill, where are we?”

               “Almost there,” Merrill says. “Don’t worry.”

               She leads them into a glade—it was a room once, Hawke thinks, although it’s hard to tell what it was for. All that’s left of it is archways and rubble, soft coloured flowers and sharp fragments of a wolf statue scattered about the ground. Looking to her left she can see where Mythal crumbled to the ground in the Dread Wolf’s arms. There is only grass there, now; no indication of her death to mar the peace of this place.

Merrill stops, and Hawke sees the confusion in her expression.

               “I—this is as far as we went,” she says, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “He—he was here last time.”

               “Who was?” asks Varric. “Daisy, where the hell are we? Who are we looking for?”

               Varania kneels in front of Fenris, and her hands shake as she pours more magic into his wound. He moans, softly. Hawke’s never seen that little colour in his face before, and she looks at the different passageways around them, frantic. Three—one dark, two lit by sunlight further down.

               “Just pick a door,” Varania says, low and agitated, “that’s been working out just fine so far.”  

               “We wouldn’t even be in this mess if someone hadn’t decided to sell her brother out,” Isabela snaps.

               Something tightens in Varania’s jaw. “I do not need to explain myself to you,” she says.

               Bela scoffs. “I might understand better than you think.”

               “This way,” Hawke says before Varania can spit something back. Everyone turns and looks at her, startled, and she ignores them, stepping towards the doorway that leads to a dark, dark hallway.

               When she reaches it and they haven’t followed her, she turns.

               Merrill is looking at her with suspicion, Varric incredulous, and the others are all somewhere in between. Varania among them is stonefaced, a single raised brow the only indication she’s heard Hawke at all. Beads of sweat are dripping down her face from the exertion of keeping Fenris alive, and her lips are drawn in a thin line.

               “Does anyone have any better ideas?” Her own voice bounces back to her off the stone walls, and it sounds harsh, sharp to her ears. She almost balks at the sound of it— _that’s not me, I don’t sound like that_ —but Fenris’ shoulders shake, his body clenches in pain, and Cassandra and Bela look at each other before they follow.

               Hawke uses what mana she has left to call a small flame to her hand, and she can make out the remnants of the frescoes on the wall. Snarling wolves, an elven woman with a bow shooting arrows at fleeing figures, elven and animal alike, her lips twisted into a snarl. Richly garbed figures drink something red and very dark from goblets, and in a corner there is an elven woman dressed in rags who bleeds into the jug as she serves from it. She bears blood writing; those she serves do not.

               Few of the frescos remain intact; most are lost to the ages, and what other shapes Hawke sees have little meaning. A bright sun that scorches the earth, and the wing of a dragon that blocks its harsh rays. A bear looks towards an owl, its expression dark with jealousy, and a hawk drives its talons into the neck of a white, white halla. Everywhere, there are frantic faces of elves in pain, their suffering exaggerated by the sharp lines of their blood writing.

               They pass through a room with an altar—here Hawke nearly doubles over, her left arm seizing in phantom pain. She pretends she’s tripped on something that looks like a globe, dull and lifeless, and the others pretend not to notice that she’s lying.

               She leads them deeper, deeper still, until suddenly they stumble into open air, a rush of sunlight and warmth, and Hawke finds her footing as she blinks, rapidly, to adjust to the sudden overwhelming presence of light.

               “ _Elgar’nan_ ,” Merrill whispers, somewhere behind her, and Hawke can’t find the breath to echo the sentiment so she nods.

               They stand in what appears to be a garden—in stark contrast to the condition of the rest of the ruin, this place seems frozen in time. There is a cobbled path at their feet made from the softest marble and the finest glass, curving and whirling through the grass in intricate patterns. The glass seems to glow with an inner light as the sun above them seems to be fading— _but it can’t be that late in the day, can it—_ and something in the air changes, something trembling in the leaves of the well-manicured trees, moss-covered stones. The far wall is sheer stone, water trickling down its surface to land in a pool of unknown depth. It seems to glow as the light begins to fade, and Hawke can feel the veil humming in the air, tingling on her skin— _so thin_ , here.

               Near the pool, there is a stone bed, a figure lying prone on it, and the man who is the Dread Wolf is kneeling beside it.

               Hawke approaches, her steps quick but sluggish, heavy in this place of delicate, timeless beauty.

               The figure on the bed is a woman, Hawke realises as she comes closer. Elven, and her once bronze skin is dulled and wrinkled with age and sickness. She thinks she must be a corpse, her features are so twisted by age and she’s so very still, but—there, her chest rises and falls in a single, weak breath. There’s something familiar about the hook of her nose, but her eyes are closed, her hair white and spilling around her as she sleeps, and Hawke cannot place it. She is dressed in traditional Dalish clothing, the kind Hawke has only seen in books, her wrinkled hands resting at her sides. She has blue _vallaslin_ , long faded with age and time, and Hawke thinks that Aevalle has the exact same pattern, doesn’t she?

               The Dread Wolf is looking at her face with such love, such a tender expression, and she stops some distance away, unsure.

               “Fen’harel,” Merrill says, and the moment is lost.

               He stands abruptly, rage and confusion passing his features. “What—” he starts, then stops as he sees Hawke, Fenris supported by Isabela and Cassandra behind her, Varania’s weak attempts to heal him fluttering from her fingertips.

               “ _This_ is who you took us to see?” Varric asks, incredulous. “In case you didn’t remember, he tried to kill us the last time!”

               “He would have done it if he wanted to,” Merrill says. “Fen’harel, please, we need your help.”

               “Where is she?” he asks. His voice is low and the question pointed, biting. His eyes seem to burn with something that is stronger than his rage, and it makes the hair on the back of Hawke’s neck stand on end.

               “Danarius took her,” Hawke says before Merrill can answer. “A Tevinter magister.”

               The Dread Wolf’s gaze focuses on Hawke, and she actually flinches a little at the intensity of it. His nose wrinkles— _that_ looks familiar, too—and as he approaches her he places one foot in front of the other, like that wolf she saw at the zoo in Denerim.

               “And you just let him? You would stand between her and an elven god and yet not a human man?”

               “She gave herself up in exchange for Fenris’ life,” Hawke snaps. She notices the slight change in his features, the escalation of his rage, but she continues, “Which will all go to waste if he bleeds to death. So help him, and then tell us where she’s gone so we can get her back.”

               Fen’harel looks from Hawke to Fenris, and she reads another series of minute changes in his expression—rage, disappointment, fear, worry, guilt—and he turns on his heel, beckoning with the back of a hand for them to follow.

               “Place him here,” he says, indicating the grass next to the pool. Cassandra and Bela lower him as delicately as they can, and Fen’harel kneels at Fenris’ side. He pulls a knife from his belt, and Hawke flinches in surprise but he uses it to cut Fenris’ bloodied shirt away, baring his wound to the air.

               Fenris seems very still. Hawke’s heart rattles against her chest hard enough for both of them.

               Fen’harel’s hands begin to glow, bright and strong and powerful, and as he brings them to the knife wound in Fenris’ chest the lyrium ignites. Fenris cries out, his voice soft and ragged but wracked in _pain_. Hawke is beside him in a heartbeat, one hand clasped around his and the other on his brow, avoiding the dots of lyrium there, just touching his skin. He’s hot and feverish under her fingertips, clammy and pale.

               Fen’harel spares her only a glance as he continues his work—his hands do not tremble, even when he has to touch the wound, which has begun to fester despite Varania’s attentions. Fenris moans and mutters, and none of the words make sense but Hawke leans in and hums, gently, as he once did for her, that song Aevalle knows that she shouldn’t, and he relaxes, his body sinking back into the grass.

               Varania seems to go very still at the sound of it. Hawke pretends not to notice.

               Hawke stays with Fenris until Solas is done, and her fingers have left trails all over his face in his own crusted, dried blood. But at the end of it all his breathing is strong, even, deep, and the colour seems to be returning to his face.

               Fen’harel hands her a clean, white cloth. It smells like cedar and elfroot.

               “The spring’s water has healing properties,” he says, and she is surprised by the tenderness in his voice. “You should look after yourself, now.”

               Hawke takes it and thanks him, gently. Her hand is shaking, but she wets the cloth and uses it to clean Fenris’ face, his chest, the area where he was hurt and now not even a scar remains.

               As she works, Fen’harel says nothing. He watches her for a while, until he seems to find it unbearable. He stands and washes his hands in the spring water. Then he cups some of the water in his palms and he returns to the woman on the bed, and he trickles some of it into her mouth, bit by bit. Hawke tries not to watch, but it’s mesmerising—and the look of agony on his face is so unlike his expression moments before.

               He touches the woman’s cheek, so gently. He closes his eyes and his expression hardens, slowly, until he opens his eyes and there is a mask firmly in place over his features.

               “Tell me what happened,” he says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh kind of an in-between chapter without any real answers, but I ended up really liking this after I wrote it so sorry? I guess?
> 
> So now we know where Merrill and Aevalle ran off to when they went through the eluvian a few chapters ago. 
> 
> The next chapter has a few answers for you, I promise. :)


	41. By Mythal and No Other

Leto had a nightmare, and when he wakes Mother is not there to comfort him.

                Mother being absent from their cramped bed is not unusual. She is gone often in the night, and she comes back with fresh bruises and marks on her tanned skin. Leto’s only seen four summers but he knows enough that it scares him when she’s gone, some deep part of him remembering amber eyes and tawny hands that mean _Father_ , worrying that his disappearance might spread to Mother like the pox among all the children last winter.

                Varania is no help—his attempts to pull closer to her are met with resistance. She yanks her arm away from his grasp and murmurs, “Go away Leto.” They fought with each other before bedtime, and even in sleep Varania holds a grudge. She’s always so angry, Varania, it gets her in trouble sometimes.

                He tries again to curl close to her, and she elbows him until he rolls out of the bed, stifling back a sob. He sits on the floor of their room until he is sure he will not cry, and then he stands and goes looking for his mother.

                Leto knows people will be mad if he’s caught wandering this late, but the nightmare seems so real, and Varania’s elbows are pointy enough that he does not want to climb back into bed with her. He knows there are only a few cameras to keep watch for. And he knows which of Master’s guards will be appeased by crying and begging for Mother. He’s young enough for that still.

                It’s very late, and the halls are deserted. The padding of Leto’s bare feet on the delicate tile floor slaps his ears with each step, and he flinches like they’re real blows at first. Soon he grows used to it, and he finds it strangely peaceful, not having to worry about being underfoot.

                He forgets he’s looking for Mother, instead allowing himself to stop and look at the paintings on the wall. He feels particularly daring and climbs onto a table so he can reach up and touch a long line of red on the bottom of one, just above its golden frame. It’s rough on his fingers, raised ridges where a brush was, once, and he climbs back down feeling very brave, wanting to brag about it to Varania later. He might enjoy holding it over her head.

                If she doesn’t go and tell Mother right away. Tattle-tale.

                Leto sees a balcony door ajar and he slips out onto it. He pulls himself up onto the railing and sits there, swinging his legs back and forth and smiling up at the stars. Master’s summer estate—the _new_ one, although Leto isn’t sure what happened to the old one on Seheron—is far enough away from Neromenian that he can make out the stars overhead, shining bright. The heat is oppressive and the air thick with humidity, but there is a slight breeze that ruffles his pale hair and it smells like something—sweet, maybe. Acidic. Nutty, definitely. Fruity? They’ve only recently come from Seheron and he’s never smelled this before. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, trying to taste it on the air. He doesn’t know what it is, but he likes it.

                It smells like something that might make Varania smile. It makes him wonder what else he would find, if he climbed the walls and left this place.

                After a little while Leto decides to climb back down from the railing. He thinks maybe he will sneak into the kitchen and see if there is anything in the fridge that will not be missed—there was a banquet the night before, and there are always scraps from dessert. Maybe Varania will be less angry if he can steal a bowl of cake scraps.

               Leto goes to swing his feet back over the railing, but something about the momentum is off and he slips backwards. He manages to grab the railing before he falls off, his mouth open as if to shout but no sound coming out. His whole body dangles in the air as he clutches the railing, heart hammering in his chest, his eyes squeezed shut so he doesn’t look down.

               Then, just as he feels himself slipping again, there are hands pulling him up. They are rough and worn like Mother’s, and he opens his eyes in surprise as he is pulled back over the railing and deposited safely on the balcony. He almost calls for her, then, but the skin of her hands are dark copper, blue tattoos on her cheeks and dark, dark curls of hair spilling around pointed ears and over her face.

                He’s never seen her before, and she’s not dressed like the other slaves. But there is real panic in her green eyes, and Leto thinks they’re a little like his mother’s so he relaxes. She’s saying something to him, and it takes him a minute to realise she’s speaking in Trade, not Tevene.

                “It’s alright, _da’len_ ,” she repeats, smiling. “I’ve got you.”

                He blinks at her. She pets his hair, but he is long comforted—he wonders if it’s for herself more than him, as she still looks wide-eyed and frightened.

                “You shouldn’t climb up places like that,” she says. “It’s very dangerous.”

                He nods, solemnly, because that’s what he’s supposed to do when he’s in trouble.

                She looks over her shoulder. Then she turns around and squeezes his arms, so gently that he smiles a little. “I have to go now, _da’len_ ,” she says.

                “Leto.”

                She blinks.

                He’s not very good at speaking Trade, but he tries anyway. “My name is Leto.”

                That makes her smile. “Leto,” she says. “I have to go now, Leto, so promise me you will go back to bed and be good from now on.”

                He frowns and wonders what he’s supposed to call her. “Yes, Mistress.”

                Oh, that’s wrong. Her smile falters and there’s something painful in her eyes. But she doesn’t move to hit him, so he bows his head, hoping to placate her.

                Instead, she kisses his forehead.

                “My name is Evanura,” she tells him. “Now, back to bed, or the Dread Wolf will eat you up!” She punctuates her sentence by tapping him on the nose, playfully. And then she whirls up and through the balcony door, long and quick strides carrying her down the hall, the opposite way from the room he shares with Mother and Varania. He notices the bow on her back when she leaves, dark and shining. He’s never seen one before that’s not in a picture, and he wonders what she has it for.

                Leto pads back into the hallway, looking after Evanura with a frown. He doesn’t know what a Dread Wolf is, but it can’t be worse than Master, so instead of going back to bed he follows her, as silently as he can.

                He sees her again and crouches under a table—she’s arguing with two other elves, and they are dressed like her but they look very different. They have markings on their faces like hers, but theirs are different colours, and elaborate in comparison. They are speaking in hushed tones and a language he doesn’t understand, but snatches of it are familiar—there’s a man who used to be Dalish who works in the kitchens.

                They stop arguing and Evanura follows them. Leto waits a few heartbeats before he does the same.

                He loses them again for a while—they’re moving much faster than he can—and it’s not until he turns the corner to the hallway outside Master’s bedroom, the door ajar, that he thinks something very wrong is going on. He can hear Evanura arguing with the other two strange elves, her voice rising, theirs lowering, sounding dangerous.

                Then he hears another voice ring out in pain, and panic rises in his chest.

                “Mama!” he cries, running through the door.

                Evanura is standing in the middle of the room, an arrow drawn to her bow. One of the strange elves is standing by the bed, where Leto sees a bloody mess and the body of Master, twisted in pain, unmoving. It is strange only because it is Master, not the way the body curls away from the source of the pain. The other holds Mother by the hair, her clothing askew, a knife to her throat.

                At his cry, the other elves’ attention is on him, not on Evanura. Leto blinks and the man with Mother has an arrow in his shoulder, pinning him to the wall, and Mother is falling to the floor. He cries and runs to her without thinking, dimly aware of Evanura moving around him, the sound of another arrow whistling through the air, hitting stone. He clings to Mother and tries to ignore the sound of something connecting with flesh, a grunt and a body hitting the floor.

                There is nothing but silence for a long, petrifying moment. Then the man on the wall groans, and Evanura is beside them. There is the sound of something heavy on flesh, and the man is silent.

                “ _Fenedhis,_ ” Evanura says, and then a number of other things in rapid succession that Leto doesn’t catch.

                “Please,” Mother says, shifting so her body is between Evanura and Leto, her back bared to protect him. “Please don’t hurt my son.”

               He’s never heard Mother beg before. He fists his hands in her torn clothing and peers over her shoulder at Evanura.

                There is a spatter of blood across her face, and her eyes are wide with panic.

                “Evanura,” Leto says.

                Mother stiffens and immediately tries to hush him, her hands on his hair, but Evanura jolts as if woken up.

                “I—I won’t hurt you,” she says, softly. “Run, get out of here. They can’t see you in here.”

                Mother laughs then, and it startles Leto. She sounds so cruel—he’s never heard her like this. “Run where? All the guards know I’m here. His wife knows I’m here. You’ve killed me just as surely as you’ve killed my Master, _free elf_.”

                Evanura’s jaw works back and forth. Leto gazes up at her and she stares back, unmoving.

                “Come with me,” she says.

                Mother hesitates. She pulls back from Leto then, and she holds him at arm’s length. Her expression is tight, as it always is when she’s about to say something she doesn’t want to.

                “Leto,” she says, softly. “Go get your sister, and then do as this lady says.”

                Leto’s eyes widen. “Mama.”

                Her eyes harden and she inhales, sharply. “Please, Leto,” she says. She embraces him, so tightly, and then she stands even as Leto reaches for her.

                “Go,” she says to Evanura. She sounds distant.

                “What about you?”

                “I’ll bring the guards here. That will buy you time.”

                “But—”

                Mother grabs Evanura’s hand, and blood smears on her pale skin. “Please,” she says, and her voice breaks. “Please save my children.”

                Leto does not cry when he leaves Mother behind, and he does not cry when he shakes Varania awake, forcefully. He does not cry when Evanura asks if they have anything they want to take with them, and they shake their heads. He does not cry when the guards see them, and Evanura tells them to stay behind her, and there is only the sound of arrows whistling through the air, gunfire, the crackle of magic.

                He doesn’t cry as they climb into a truck and Evanura drives them away, even as Varania clutches him close, her eyes wide with fear.

 

It’s almost two days later before they stop to rest. They’ve abandoned the truck and they are moving through the woods as fast as they can. Evanura urges them onward, and they follow without complaint, eat what food she gives them as they walk, climbing over roots and fallen trees. Evanura keeps her bow in one hand and an arrow in the other, and there are dark circles under her eyes but still they dart about, alert as ever.

                Even though he’s trying so hard not to complain, to keep moving, he falls over his own feet trying to climb down a small hill. He tumbles and hits his head once before Evanura catches him, and the sudden pain startles him so much he begins to cry.

                “Now is not the _time_ , Leto!” Varania scolds him.

                He hiccups as he tries to stop, but that only makes it turn into a wail, full and throat-wrenching. He can’t breathe for the force of his screams, his whole body shaking as it all just comes out of him, louder and wilder than he’s ever been in his life.

                At first, Evanura freezes as she holds him upright, and he’s terrified that she’ll hit him but he can’t stop, he’s too exhausted and hurt and hungry and why did they have to leave Mother behind? Why couldn’t Mother come too?

                At some point, he becomes dimly aware of being held, of someone hushing him and stroking his hair. He cries until he can’t possibly cry any more, and then he keeps crying. Eventually Varania— _Varania_ —starts to sing, and he feels his sister embrace him from behind. In front of him Evanura is warm and strong, behind him Varania is safe and familiar, and his sister begins to sing the lullaby their mother sings for them. Varania’s voice is sweet and gentle, and she sings it the whole way through, once, then repeats it without hesitation. Evanura doesn’t seem to understand the Tevene but she hums along, slipping into a high, tender harmony that makes Varania’s voice grow stronger, somehow.

               Eventually, he joins them, halting, sobbing, choking on tears that won’t stop, and he feels Evanura kiss his forehead, Varania kiss the back of his head, smiles on their lips, warmth in their voices. Then Varania lets go of him and he is lifted up and carried in Evanura’s arms. He drifts in and out of sleep like that, his arms wrapped around Evanura’s neck, legs around her torso and his head resting on her shoulder, and she keeps humming the song, gentle and kind.

                Neither Varania or Leto are shocked when they’re caught. Evanura doesn’t seem to be, either—the line of her jaw is determined, but not surprised.

                “Run,” she tells them, low under her breath. “Don’t stop for anything.”

                There’s an arrow to her bow, and she draws it. Varania grabs Leto’s hand and pulls him. Everything is a blur, dark and unsteady, careening through uncertain footing—until some tall human man stands in front of them, blocking their path, his arms crossed over his chest.

                “Let’s take you back to your mother, children,” he says. There’s something pretending to be kindness in his voice—like a person who doesn’t like animals speaking to a dog. It’s not like Evanura sounding kind, where she means it. “You’ll have a new Master soon enough.”

 

Mother tries to protect him from New Master when he comes, and she gets lightning all across her back for her trouble. Varania is left to kneel over Mother, shaking her, while Leto is carried away over someone’s shoulder, not crying.

                The human carrying him follows New Master down some stairs, so far down, and Leto knows for sure he’ll never see the sun again, never sneak out onto a balcony and look at the stars again, never see Mother or Varania again.

                They are keeping Evanura in a very bright room with very white walls, tied down to a steel table with her blood all over it. The palm of her left hand looks like someone’s tried to dig something out of it, layers of flesh and tendon peeled back—all the while something sparks bright and green inside, sending spasms up her arm.

                Her head rolls to the door when it closes, and her eyes widen with panic when she sees Leto. Her jaw clenches and she says nothing, her face twisting into an expression of rage as she looks up at New Master, who strolls into the room with ease.

                “It is my understanding you have been largely uncooperative,” New Master says in Trade, inspecting his nails.

                Evanura doesn’t respond. She glances once at Leto.

                “I don’t care why you killed my predecessor,” he says, dropping his hand and crossing his arms behind his back. “I suppose I should thank you, really. Saved me the trouble, and now I have received his seat in the Magisterium. Along with all his research notes and his property.”

                She jerks against her restraints.

                “I presume you and your friends were after something very particular—I’m surprised you learned of it. Such a small thing almost escaped my notice.”

                He gestures, and another guard hands him a book. It looks old and musty, and Leto’s never seen it before.

                Evanura is stonefaced and still at the sight of it.

                “There’s a very interesting passage in here about a certain ritual,” he says, holding up the book. “A shame most of the book is damaged beyond repair.”

                He hands the book back, and beckons to the guard holding Leto. Leto squirms as he’s placed on the floor, feet first. He gets only a glance at the door before there’s something cold against the side of his head, and he freezes.

                The change in Evanura is immediate. She jerks so hard against her restraints that the table physically lifts off the ground, just a breath, her whole body pulling as far from the steel underneath her as she can. She snarls in that language Leto doesn’t understand, the words long and flowing but she spits them out like venom deep in her gut. The hand that’s been ripped open sparks and burns so bright the whole room is green.

                Then, as suddenly as it began, something flashes on her restraints, and Evanura collapses back to the table with a cry of pain, that strange magic in her hand still.

                New Master laughs.

                “How strange,” he says, circling her table. “Your friends didn’t even blink no matter how many times I had a bullet put in a slave’s head.”

                “He’s a child,” she says. Her voice is rough and scratched, likely for screaming. It’s so unlike how she sounded when they met that Leto almost struggles against the man holding him, just to comfort her a little.

                “To you? Perhaps.” New Master says. He leans in closer to Evanura and smirks. “To me it is property. Nothing more. Utterly replaceable.”

                Evanura clenches her firsts.

                “It is nothing to me to have its brains on the wall, _rattus_.”

                When Evanura doesn’t respond, New Master raises a hand.

                The man holding Leto jerks him, and there’s a metal click on the gun that makes Leto cry out in fear—even though he tries not to, tries really hard not to upset Evanura.

                She closes her eyes and bites her lip. Then she says something in that other language, low and deep and broken.

                “Tell me about the ritual.”

                Her eyes snap open and she looks New Master directly in the eye.

                “Swear you won’t hurt him,” she says.

                New Master grins, and Leto’s stomach churns in fear.

                “By the Maker,” he says.

                She barks a laugh. “Your Maker means nothing to me, _shemlen_. I have no interest in a god who turns his back on his creation, who wallows in his own despair. Swear by a god that seethes with injustice, broken and battered, whose rage is the churning of an ocean, the fires that will one day burn this miserable country to the ground. Swear it by Mythal and no other.”

                Leto has never seen a magister hesitate. But New Master does, just for a moment, in the face of Evanura’s spite.

                But then he smiles again, because he’s won, of course he has, and he says, “Then by this, _Mythal_ , I swear I will not harm a even single hair on the boy’s head.”

                Evanura’s shoulders fall back against the table. She swallows and then she says, “Alright. I’ll talk.”

                New Master waves a hand, and the man takes Leto away. The last he sees of Evanura is her head turned to watch him go with sad, sad eyes—and in spite of it all, trying to smile.

 

Then there’s another memory—fresher, darker. “Don’t do this Leto,” his mother pleads, verging on hysterics, guards pulling her away by her arms.

                Varania’s standing to one side, hands clenched into fists. She opens her mouth to say something and fails, and eventually a guard takes her away too, and Leto is left clutching his hands into fists at his sides, listening to his mother’s screaming down the hall.

                This is right, he reminds himself, nineteen summers spent gazing up at the stars when no one’s looking, his heart hammering in his chest, they are free now. It doesn’t matter what happens to him.

                It’s Evanura he thinks of when a man ties him to the table, months later, and that’s when a sob escapes him; a lost, broken thing. Danarius— _master, monster, who knows_ —hushes him and pets his freshly shaven head, so gently.

                Leto flinches, and Danarius laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this chapter written... since around the time I published Chapter 17, I think. Sitting on it that long has been pretty difficult, haha. 
> 
> I think a lot about Leto and who he was. I wonder how different they were; is Fenris at his core still Leto? He sounds so vulnerable when we meet Varania in game that it makes me wonder. World of Thedas doesn't have much to say on the matter, unfortunately, so I'l have to wonder for forever, I guess. (I wonder an absurd amount about Varania, too) 
> 
> It's never clarified who is the older and who is the younger sibling in game--I've always pictured Varania as older than Leto/Fenris, although from what I've seen younger seems to be more common. I think someone on tumblr suggested twins, once, and I just about died from the feels. 
> 
> We've seen hints of this chapter from Evanura's/Aevalle's perspective a few times before - first [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3639087/chapters/9055291), then referenced by Cole [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3639087/chapters/9339357), then [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3639087/chapters/9641511), [and here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3639087/chapters/9758646) she also talks to Malcolm Hawke about it. In case you need to get your bearings.


	42. The Greatest Lie

Fenris drifts in and out of sleep—he struggles to stay awake each time. If Danarius has him once again, he has to be prepared. He can’t think about what or why or how—he can’t think of a woman named Varania, can’t think of Hawke being pinned to the ground as lightning courses over her body, can’t think of the sudden pain in his chest, can’t think of Aevalle’s scream, high and frantic—

               He remembers only flashes of the rest. Aevalle on her knees, the hate in her eyes, and he tries not to think about the strange dream but _Varania was there too_ , and she called him Leto.

               But that’s not important. What’s important is staying awake, getting free, and then finding the others. If Aevalle and Hawke are hurt—

               _Evanura_ , some small part of him thinks.

               If _Aevalle_ and Hawke are hurt, or captured, then he will help them. And then they will keep running. He will find and strangle Danarius in his sleep if he has to; he will keep them safe.

               He thinks he hears Varric’s voice, at one point, although he can’t quite remember the words when he wakes again. He has a vague impression of his marks burning, of a soothing hand on his face, a familiar melody.

               When he wakes for the final time, he keeps his eyes closed. There’s a light breeze, and it’s stirring his hair just enough to irritate his nose. He’s lying on his back on grass— _grass_?—and there’s a rough blanket over him to ward off the chill. Is it night time? It seems dark on his eyelids, and he thinks he hears soft, slow birdsong. Early evening, then.

               “Here.”

               He tries not to stiffen at Hawke’s voice. She sounds—alive for starters. Her voice is strained with worry, but she’s trying to sound calm. He can picture the attempt at a smile on her face without looking at it.

               There’s several heartbeats of silence, and then Varania says, stiffly, “You have no reason to be kind to me.”

               Hawke laughs—softly. “And you’ve got no reason to turn down Dalish takeout.”

               “I’m not hungry.”

               “What, you’re not interested in the novelty of having food from Kirkwall in—I actually have no idea where we are. Anyway, my point is, this is still hot and it’s from a million miles away, and if that’s not the most ridiculous use of an ancient elven artifact then I don’t know what is.”

               There is a longer silence, then the rustle of a paper bag trading hands.

               “I don’t know what any of this is,” Varania says.

               “Roasted pig on a bun. Merrill and Aevalle swear up and down that the wild ones taste better but I wouldn’t know, they don’t exactly sell any of it at the corner store. That one’s chicken and that one’s—”

               “Aren’t you finished with me?” she says, her voice quiet but all sharpness, all hard edges and clipped words. “Now that I have fulfilled my purpose won’t you dispose of me? I kept him alive to get to your healer. I don’t know where Danarius is taking your friend. What further use for me could you have?”

               The paper bag rustles again. “I’ll take the pork then, if that’s alright with you.”

               “This isn’t about—” Varania drops the bag. “I saw how you look at him, I’m not blind. You think you can just—keep me around until he’s awake, and I’ll apologize and we just patch everything up? Like that?”

               “That’s not—”

               “Isn’t it?” Varania laughs, once, and it’s hard, bitter, angry. “If your friend is who Danarius thinks she is—then I’m sorry, but you won’t get her back. You probably shouldn’t.”

               “What do you mean?”

               “Imagine!” Fenris can hear footsteps in the grass, occasionally slapping on soft stone. She’s pacing. “Six years old, waking up in the middle of the night—and your little brother says _we have to go_ , and some stranger takes you away from the life you hate and—” Her voice breaks. She breathes once, twice, then recovers. “And she has the audacity to promise you freedom. To protect you when people come looking for you, to stand tall instead of cowering in fear. And then she fails. You’re six years old, and after that you understand—there’s no such thing as freedom, not really.”

               Hawke doesn’t say a word. Fenris can’t breathe.

               “But your brother—he’s four. He’s four and he still looks up at the stars at night, still looks up at the birds flying in the sky. And she gave him a taste—she dared to tell him that he was better than the magisters, that he was better than what we were born into. So he never stops looking up, even when they’re beating him for it, even when—”

               Her voice breaks again, ragged. The sound of her steps falters, and she is still.

               “Even if I knew,” Varania says, “I would not help you find her.”

               Fenris listens to Varania leave. Hawke sighs, and Fenris opens his eyes and sits up, slowly, cautiously. He thinks he should be in pain, but there is only a lingering soreness in his limbs, a tingling in his fingers.

               “Fenris!” Hawke says, even as he looks around to take in their surroundings. He seems to be in some sort of garden, well manicured but unlike any he has seen in Tevinter or Kirkwall. Something about the air is giving him goosebumps, and he tries to shake it off, slowly.

               Hawke sits next to him and steadies his shoulders as he wavers in place. “Easy,” she says. “You’ve been out cold for hours, now. How do you feel? Does anything still hurt?”

               Her clothes are covered in blood, and there are dark bruises forming along her arms, bright red welts from lightning magic, scratches and cuts all over her skin. His hand goes to her shirt, reflexively, looking for a wound, but the fabric physically crunches instead of folds when he grabs it, and dried flakes of blood fall to the grass below them. Not hers, he thinks, and he remembers to breathe.

               He closes his eyes in sheer relief.

               “You’re alright,” is all he manages to say. “For a moment, I...”

               When he can’t finish, she says, “I know.” She sighs, and Fenris opens his eyes again. She’s not meeting his gaze.

               “Aevalle’s missing.”

               She bites her lip. “She—Fenris.” She exhales, and when she looks back up at him, her eyes are wide, bright, pained. “Fenris, this is going to sound a bit crazy.”

               He’s still holding her shirt, and he grips it tighter. “Tell me.”

               “She gave herself so you would be free,” comes a voice from behind them. Fenris turns, and the man Aevalle calls Solas is approaching. He holds a plastic bag in one hand and a wooden bowl in another. “She bribed your former master with the secret to immortality. It is only a matter of time before he discovers she cannot truly give it to him, and kills her.”

               Fenris grits his teeth and tries to stand, but Hawke’s hand on his shoulder keeps him seated. “Why is he here?” he snarls.

               “He saved your life, Fenris,” she says. “He wants to help.”

               “Like he helped when he cursed Aevalle with that mark.” He shrugs off Hawke’s hand and stumbles to his feet—with difficulty, but he stands nonetheless, and he can look Solas in the eye.

               The bald apostate holds the plastic bag out to Hawke. “The others asked me to bring your change of clothing,” he says.

               She takes the bag, standing. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”

               Solas ignores Fenris and passes him, bending to the pool of water. He fills the bowl and drops a white cloth into it. He turns and goes to an altar made of stone behind him, where an aged elven woman lies. He uses the cloth to wet her lips, gently, his expression softening as he looks at her face.

               “Who is she?” Hawke asks.

               “She once held the power of the Anchor that now resides within Evanura,” Solas says.

               Fenris breathes sharply at the name, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. Solas’ gaze flickers up to his, and the apostate lowers the cloth from the woman’s lips.

               “You remember?”

               Fenris lies through gnashing teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

               Solas raises a single eyebrow and returns his ministrations to the woman on the altar. “Evanura,” he says, “is the one you call Aevalle. This is her mother, Aevalle Lavellan.”

               Hawke goes very still beside him, but Fenris pays her no attention. “So you have a history of _gifting_ women with your mark,” he says. “I should not be surprised.”

               Solas’ mouth twists downward. “The first, an accident. The second, carelessness on my part. Neither should have happened.”

               “Hang on,” Hawke says. “ _She’s_ Aevalle? But she’s—got to be—”

               “Almost one hundred and thirty.” Solas examines Hawke for a moment, frowning slightly. “Ancient by mortal standards.”

               “Maker.” Hawke exhales. “What—How did she—?”

               “Don’t pretend you haven’t stalked her dreams,” Fenris snarls, surging forward even as Hawke reaches to stop him. “I have listened to almost two years of her claiming you are coming for her in the night, that you are watching her dreams and waiting to use her for whatever purposes you deign appropriate. You can’t twist an agreeable truth from _that_.”

               Solas braces himself on the altar with both hands, his jaw set in a sharp line even as a dark smile passes over his features. “Of course,” he says, his voice rough, but he is not addressing Fenris. “Only a creature such as Nightmare would be so crude. What else would the Dalish teach her to fear?” Something like pain is in his eyes, and he looks down at the woman on the altar. “Who else would you tell her haunts her dreams?”

               “Spare me your self pity,” Fenris snaps. “You need her to reach your goals, don’t you? Why else would you come for her when we killed the dragon?”

               “She—I saw her dying,” Hawke is saying, “she was dying _and that was you_. You were the one who held her. That was you at that party and— _shit._ ”

               “I came,” Solas says, ignoring Hawke, his voice low, “because that dragon was half of the seal keeping this woman from her death, and a Fear demon the likes Thedas has never seen from breaching the Veil. Its death means that it is only a matter of time before my _vhenan’s_ dying work is completely undone and her child is the only thing standing between Nightmare and this side of the Veil. An inexperienced dreamer whose ability to control the Fade is crippled by a childhood of bumbling attempts by the Dalish to cut her off from it completely.”

               “You’re her father,” Hawke blurts. “That was— _that_ was the secret Cole wanted you to tell her. Not that you’re the Dread Wolf.”

               Fenris opens and closes his mouth. He glances back at Hawke, wide-eyed, but she’s looking at Solas, not him.

               Solas closes his eyes, so slowly. He seems to grip the altar tighter, _harder_ —and then he releases it. He takes a single, shaking breath, and then he cups the woman’s face with one hand. His expression seems unable to contain his heartbreak, and even Fenris stills at the sight of it.

               “Oh,” comes Merrill’s voice from across the garden—and there she is, standing at the entrance with Varric, Isabela, and Cassandra. “That—that certainly explains a lot.”

               No one says anything for a long, long while.

               “Well,” Varric says, “shit.”

               “You mentioned a Fear demon,” Cassandra says, even as her eyes flicker from Solas to the woman on the altar. There’s something like pity in her expression, and it makes Fenris harden his. “This is why the Venatori have been creating rifts? Trying to capture Aevalle?”

               _Evanura_ , Fenris thinks. Does not say.

               Solas lets go of the altar and stands at his full height, clasping his hands behind his back. His features are forced impassive as he looks Cassandra over, although Fenris thinks he appears a little grateful. “Yes,” he says. “Once, we fought an ancient Magister named Corypheus. The details are... unimportant. Suffice to say, he was defeated, and his weakened form thrown into the Fade by Aevalle.” He gestures to the woman on the altar. “I could not imagine he would survive long enough to recover, or to continue his attempts to end the world.”

               “But he did?” Varric offers.

               Solas snorts. “Hardly. He survived long enough to be found by Nightmare—and absorbed. Nightmare has been using his guise to influence the Venatori ever since. They were able to raise Corypheus’ blighted dragon from its grave, in an attempt to use its power to free their master.”

               Merrill exhales. “Would it have worked?”

               “It was never meant to. Nightmare used it to distract those who might deter it from its true purpose—finding a suitable host.”

               “Meaning you,” Cassandra says. “And her,” she adds, gesturing to the woman on the altar.

               “We had fought it in our battles against Corypheus. It knew of our strengths, and it sought to drive those best suited to protect Evanura from her. I became aware of the dragon through my explorations of the Fade, and Cole told Aevalle when her child began having nightmares.”

               “ _Her_ child,” Hawke parrots, looking like she wants to slap him. “Does she know?”

               Solas works his jaw back and forth, not meeting her gaze. “It is none of your business.”

               “Really?” Hawke throws her hands in the air. “Because I’ve only been having crazy ass dreams about all this shit for almost three months now. I think it’s my fucking business at this point.”

               Something changes in Solas’ expression. “That long?” he says, turning his head and looking at Hawke curiously.

               Hawke’s bluster evaporates and she immediately looks uncomfortable. “Uh—is that unusual?”

               “Exceedingly.”

               Varric coughs. “Back to the dragon...”

               Hawke glares at the dwarf and Fenris crosses his arms over his chest and glowers as a display of support for her line of questioning, but Solas allows himself to be deflected with a turn of his head.

               “Aevalle succeeded in sealing the dragon away—using its connection with what remained of Corypheus to bind Nightmare to the Fade—but she was mortally wounded in the process.”

               Fenris wonders if he’s imagining the hitch in Solas’ voice.

               “When she lay dying and her blood poured into the runes on the floor, her soul became as bound to the spell as the dragon. Her body slipped into something not unlike _uthenera_ , and her soul lingers on the edge of the Beyond, still.”

               Merrill whispers, “So when we killed the dragon...”

               Solas closes his eyes. “She is fading,” he says, softly. “And when she dies, so does the last barrier that holds Nightmare back from another attempt to possess Evanura.”

               “But she could resist it,” Merrill says, and her voice sounds high and pleading. “She’s so strong. You don’t know it, you haven’t seen it, but she’s—”

               “Ill-prepared. Untrained.” The words fly from Solas’ mouth as he rounds on Merrill, his face twisting in pain and the rage he’s concealed until this moment. “The Dalish looked at a terrified child and in their arrogance sought to subdue her. Not to teach her control, restraint, or wonder at what she might see in her dreams. Instead they took the brightest spirit born to them in an age and sought to crush her. Felandaris tea and blood magic rituals crippled her conscious connection to the Fade in its formative years, stories of the Dread Wolf hounding her dreams taught her to fear them, kept her from exploring the gifts of her bloodline.”

               “You’re so quick to judge the Dalish,” snaps Merrill, her cheeks bright with rage as she refuses to stand down even as Solas advances. “How many ages has it been since a dreamer was born to the Dalish? Her Keeper did all they could.”

               Solas scoffs. “An excuse used throughout history by those who caused the world its greatest wrongs.”

               “Where were you?” Fenris finds himself asking.

               Everyone turns and looks at him at once. Merrill looks alarmed that Fenris is defending her, and Solas looks livid.

               “You claim to know what should have been done,” Fenris continues, his lips curling and nose wrinkling in disgust, “and yet you were not there. You left her to her fate as much as the Dalish.”

               Solas stares at Fenris in a mute rage that can only mean the exact thought has crossed his mind more than once.

               “You didn’t know about her,” Varric offers, “did you?”

               Solas looks away.

               “How did no other demon possess her?” Cassandra wonders when Solas offers nothing further.

               “The Dalish were able to teach her something of resisting temptation,” Solas says, his voice once more controlled, even. “And Cole was able to hide her from the prying eyes of lesser spirits. But Nightmare had marked her—no spirit would dare risk attracting his attention but stealing his intended host.”

               “What about the Anchor?” Hawke asks. “How did—eh, _our_ Aevalle get it?”

               “I spent years attempting to fix the damage I had done—I thought that by removing the Anchor, I could remove my _vhenan_ from the spell and allow her soul to pass into the Beyond. I drew it into the remnants of the focus for my power, an action which left me drained. I dreamt in another attempt to find her soul and guide her to rest, and to recover.”

               His gaze returns to the woman on the altar.

               “As I slept, someone came and stole the focus from where it rested in her hands. An agent of the Venatori; how they stumbled upon my home, I cannot say. It is likely that Nightmare guided him here, sensing my weakness. When I woke, the orb was lost to me, and I could feel that it had been destroyed once more without the Anchor to bind it. I did not know that the thief had been guided to clan Lavellan by Nightmare, and found Evanura there.”

               “How did you find out about her?” Cassandra asks. “If—if it’s not too personal.”

               “I think we’re past the point of _too personal_ ,” Varric says with a sad laugh behind his words.

               Something softens in Solas’ expression. “It was Cole,” he says. “Cole who found me. Who told me that I—” his voice breaks, just a little. He blinks and swallows to regain his composure. “He told me where to find her, that she was in great pain and he could not free her alone. It took— _months_ , but I secured the appropriate contacts to discover the Venatori planned to move her south, to free Nightmare in the guise of their master from his prison. It was nothing to intercept the truck—another thing entirely to see what they had done to her.”

               “They were torturing her,” Cassandra says.

               “Yes.” There is urgency in his voice, and he turns to Fenris and Hawke, his eyes narrow. “And she would return to that to save you. Undo all I—”

               He ducks his head, a curse hanging on his lips.

               Fenris crosses his arms over his chest.

               “You should rest,” Solas says, his voice low. “All of you. I will try to find her in the Fade—until we know where she has lead this Magister and his men, we have no hope of intervening before it is too late.”

               Fenris moves to protest, his lips twisting into a snarl, but Varric interrupts him.

               “Come on, Broody,” he says, “you still need to put a shirt on. And maybe have a sandwich.”

               Solas slips into the passageway behind the others and vanishes, his head low. Fenris scowls after him, but Hawke’s hand on his shoulder stops him from pursuing.

 

Fenris could swear he only sits down for a minute after eating—he doesn’t want to admit it but he’s famished—but when he wakes with his back to a hard stone wall, it’s to the sound of water, a soft sigh that sounds familiar in a way that makes his core grow warm.

               He jerks his head up, blinking at the change in the light—an hour or so, maybe—and when his gaze focuses it’s on Hawke’s back, bare, up to her waist in the water of the spring.

               He stares longer than he should, longer than he has any right to. He has a perfect view of the lines the sun has marked on her skin, the curve of her neck as she bends to wring the water out of her hair. His eyes dart over the goosebumps on her skin as she shivers when the wind picks up, and he thinks of the heat of her gaze, her lips, the desperation when she last kissed him.

               His phone, forgotten, vibrates in his back pocket. He coughs and looks away, pointedly.

               “Fenris!” Hawke says. “I—you’re awake. Again.”

               “I uh—” He takes a breath. “You—you are healed. Good.”

               “Oh,” she says, something not unlike heat in her voice.

               His face grows hot as he realises what he’s just admitted to.

               “The uh, water has—it uh, you know, blood lotus and—” Hawke exhales sharply and finishes, weakly, “It’s magic. Feels nice.”

               Fenris pulls his phone out of his pocket to distract himself from his burning face.

               _New email from Aevalle Lavellan_

               “Hawke,” he says, something frantic in his own voice he doesn’t recognise.

               “What is it?” he can hear her splashing in the water as she clambers to the grass. She comes to him wrapped in a fluffy towel with halla embroidered expertly on the seams. Aevalle’s handiwork—Merrill’s towels.

               “It’s from Aevalle,” he says, his voice thick as he fumbles to input his password.

               Hawke crouches in the grass next to him.

_Lethallin,_

_I suppose if you're getting this email that means that it all went to hell, didn't it?_

_I don't know if I'm still alive, at this point, if you've been captured again and this will never reach you anyway, or if I will watch you clean Danarius' blood from your hands while I delete this email before it sends._

               He closes his eyes.

               “What is it? Is she okay?”

               He swallows. “It’s automatic,” he says. “It’s—she set it to send.”

               “Fuck,” Hawke says. “Fenris, I’m sorry.”

               He feels the warmth of her hand almost touching his shoulder, and he leaps to his feet. He paces, hands trembling, phone held in front of him but he’s not reading what’s on the screen. Can’t quite bring himself to.

               “She _knew_ ,” he says, and there’s something hurt and betrayed in his voice and he _can’t_ , he can’t let himself feel it because he doesn’t know how he’ll ever climb back up out of that. It’s easier to feel angry, the familiar burn of the lyrium embedded in his skin _and she told Danarius how it was done_. “She planned this all along.”

               Hawke stands but does not go to him, clutching the towel around herself, her knees stained from the grass and her hair dripping wet. She shivers in the wind and Fenris paces still, not looking at her eyes.

               He stops. “You knew.” It’s not an accusation, but there isn’t much that’s kind in his tone either.

               “Maker.” He can hear the tremble of Hawke’s voice as it _almost_ breaks. “Yes.”

               “And you didn’t tell me.”

               “I—” She exhales, and he hears her soft steps in the grass as she begins to approach him. “Fenris, I thought I was going crazy. I almost did, I just—what could I say? Your most stable relationship was built on a lie? I couldn’t do that to you.”

               He wonders if his phone will shatter, he’s gripping it so hard. “You should have told me,” he says. His voice sounds stronger than it should. Shouldn’t he relent, in some way? Shouldn’t there be a middle ground, some semblance of understanding? _She was not herself_ , and he forgave her pushing but not this?

               “I called you,” she says, weakly. “I… couldn’t do it. Not without talking to Aevalle first.”

               “ _Evanura_ ,” he corrects with a snarl, his voice and the lines of his shoulders sharp.

               “I’m sorry,” she says. “Fenris—”

               He whirls on her. “Why?” He snarls, and the question falls from his lips broken, battered. “I never _asked_ for this! I never asked for her to save me in the first place, for these markings, to have anyone give their life for mine, not on Seheron, not as a child, not here.”

               “That’s not true,” says a voice from the other side of the garden, and Fenris’ blood runs cold.

               He turns and Varania is there, her arms crossed, her face impassive. She manages to look slightly disdained as she examines him, the lines of her expression sharp and cold.

               “You competed for those markings,” she says, gesturing with a stiff hand to his body. “When you won, you had us freed.”

               Fenris can feel something dark coiling up in his chest.

               “Why are you telling me this?” he says, his voice low and pained. “Why did you—”

               “Sell you out?” Varania’s lip curls in distaste. “I had no choice, Leto. You don’t know what I’ve had to do to survive since Mother died.”

               “I know better than you think,” Fenris snarls, advancing. “What did he offer you?”

               “Only to fill a position in his household,” Varania spits back, “one you so graciously made vacant. He needed an apprentice, Leto, and I needed stability.”

               Fenris is directly before her now, and Varania’s eyes flick down at his bare chest as the lyrium sparks in his rage. “So you would sit by Danarius’ side and watch him commit his atrocities? Against his slaves? Against _me_? For a chance at becoming a magister?”

               She forces her expression even.

               “You know as well as I do,” Fenris says, his voice low, “that the Imperium does not permit elven magisters.”

               “And you know what he would have done to me if I refused,” Varania says, and although he towers over her she sounds just as dangerous as he does, in that moment. The lyrium hums under his skin as she pulls magic to her untrained hand.

               “Maker,” Hawke nearly shouts behind them. “Can I get dressed before we all try to kill each other, please?”

               Fenris inhales, and with deliberate focus the lyrium calms. Varania’s hand relaxes and the magic gathered there filters into the air around them as a benign heat.

               Varania turns, and Fenris looks away.

               “How does it feel,” Varania says, “to have someone you love give themselves up for something as petty as your freedom?"

               Fenris jerks his gaze back up to hers.

               She is looking at him over her shoulder, meeting his gaze with narrowed eyes. “Freedom is no gift,” she tells him with a voice full of spite. “You’ll find that out soon enough.”

               She says nothing more. She turns and leaves, disappearing into the darkness of this strange temple.

               He stands in silence until Hawke says, “Fenris,” and then her voice falters and she fails to say anything else.

               He looks down at the phone in his hand.

               “I am sorry, Hawke,” he says, his voice low and unsteady. “What I said was… unkind.”

               He can hear her soft footsteps approaching in the grass, but he does not turn to look at her. He finds his gaze drifting up, instead—where the stone walls around them give way to the leaves of trees and the sky above. He stares at the softness of sunset fading into twilight and finds the first evening star, its light weak, flickering, distant, overpowered by the first of the moons crossing the horizon.

               “Nothing is what I thought,” he says, distantly. “I—I thought that if I found my sister, if I learned more of my past I might find some belonging. Instead? What family I had was lying to me all along, and even that is lost to me.” He sighs, closing his eyes. “I am alone.”

               He is unaware that Hawke has moved to stand in front of him until he feels her hand on his face—just a brushing of her skin, gentle, warm. She opens his eyes and allows her to draw his gaze downward, into her grey eyes, and he feels his face soften at the warmth he finds there.

               “I’m here, Fenris,” she says.

               It’s too much. He leans into her touch and allows himself to be lost in her eyes, just for a moment.

               Then he glances down at her exposed shoulders, her left hand, and the towel that is slowly slipping from her grasp.

               “You’re wearing a towel,” he says, louder than he means to.

               Her eyes widen and her cheeks burn scarlet. “Fuck,” she says, and they both laugh as if it’s been startled from them. A little too loud, too rushed, but she looks back at him and she’s smiling still, and there’s some part of him that feels needed, safe.

               He looks down at his phone again.

               “I need to read this,” he says. He leaves the next question hanging in the air, unsure, and Hawke takes her hand and places it over his.

               “Of course,” she says, understanding. “Just uh, let me put my pants on first, hey?”

               Hawke dresses while Fenris waits, not pacing but shifting his weight with agitation, anticipation.

               When she’s dressed in clothes that are not covered in his blood, she sits in the grass next to him as he opens up the email again. He takes a breath and holds it between them and they read, her head resting on his shoulder and her fingers fiddling with the red bandanna around his wrist.

_Lethallin,_

_I suppose if you're getting this email that means that it all went to hell, didn't it?_

_I don't know if I'm still alive, at this point, if you've been captured again and this will never reach you anyway, or if I will watch you clean Danarius' blood from your hands while I delete this email before it sends. I haven't been sleeping easy, Lethallin, and where I thought it was the Dread Wolf haunting my dreams, I find it is only my past catching up to me. Is it strange to find that a relief?_

_I'm rambling. Putting off the inevitable. It's easier to pretend I will not have to send this, that you will find only your sister in the Hanged Man and she will be gentle, sweet, kind. But Tevinter isn't even kind to Dorian, one of its brightest minds, and I can't fool myself into thinking any elf who leaves that place comes away soft. We certainly didn't, did we?_

_I can't be there in person to answer your questions, if this goes the way I think it might, but I wanted you to hear the truth from me. I owe you that. Least of everything we have given each other, I owe you the truth._

_My mother named me Evanura. It's clunky and old and I don't go by it anymore because it means a lot of things; hope for the people, the best of the Dales, freedom from pain. None of these things I have found in my life. Save the first, in those of the people I have met. You, Merrill… even Sera. Not in me. Never in me._

_It's... hard to keep track of the names I've used. Aevalle is probably not the most subtle, but I was feeling nostalgic when getting a fake ID so here we are. Wishing my mother were here instead of me._

_I'm rambling. I keep doing that._

_I met you when you were four or five years old, and you were sitting on a balcony rail and looking up at the stars. Did I think an elven child would look so full of wonder in Tevinter? Did I imagine to see a slave trying to taste the smell on the air?_

_I prayed to Mythal to let me save you and your sister. When you cried on my shoulder and when you stopped and fell asleep. I prayed and prayed and I whispered her name and sang her hymns until I thought my heart burst. But I left two of her chosen for dead for you, Lethallin, and Mythal was murdered long before my time, so she could not answer even if I were truly one of her chosen servants._

_Some days I can’t decide if letting Danarius kill you would have been kinder, in the long run. As it stands, I gave the man responsible for the worst of your suffering the knowledge he needed to make it happen, and if there was a gesture, a word, anything at all that would ease a fraction of the pain I’ve caused you, understand that I would never hesitate. I would throw myself on a sword if my death alone would bring you some peace._

_On my better days I think Mythal herself brought you back to me. To give me a chance to make up for what I’ve done to you. But there is nothing left of my goddess but a corrupted shred of justice, and to that vengeance I will bow my head and submit. On worse days I wonder if it wasn’t Elgar’nan who sent you, to scorch the lies around me so I could no longer hide from what I had done._

_I have darker thoughts. They’re not worth repeating._

_I don’t have the heart for another one of these emails, so, please. Tell Merrill that I really do wish I could ever be the person she thinks I am. Maybe I was, once._

_Lethallin, the greatest lie I ever told you was that I helped you because you needed it. So all I can offer now is the truth: I helped you then because I looked at what you had been made into and it was all my fault._

_I know you better now. I know you’re more than what Danarius did to you. You’re more and better and greater than I have ever been. You gave me hope again, Lethallin; for the people, for my own happiness. Now that I know you, I have seen that my greatest failure wasn’t enough to kill your spirit._

_Please, trust me one last time. Look up at the stars again, Lethallin. Let me do this for you. Do not follow me, Fenris. I will promise you one last thing: you will not see me or Danarius again._

               _Dareth shiral._

               When he has finished, his jaw tight with everything he’s not letting himself feel, Hawke says, “Are you alright?”

               He puts the phone beside him in the grass. “No,” he says, his voice thick. His mind is whirling—there’s _something_ she’s said that’s pulling at a memory, but he doesn’t know what or where to find it.

               “I’m sorry,” she says. “Fenris, I didn’t know she planned this. I swear.”

               Fenris feels his breath catch in his throat.

               “Swear it by Mythal,” he whispers, “and no other.”

               Hawke looks at him. “What?”

               “She—” He picks up his phone again. “I remembered, a little. When Danarius was—torturing her. He threatened to have me killed to get the information he wanted from her.”

               “Fuck,” Hawke breathes. “I—holy shit. I saw that. In pieces. Fenris—”

               “But there is nothing left of my goddess but a corrupted shred of justice, and to that vengeance I will bow my head and submit,” he reads, aloud, scowling. “Danarius tried to swear by the Maker, but she wouldn’t let him. She made him swear by Mythal that he wouldn’t hurt me.”

               “Maker— _Fenris_ ,” she says, urgently. “She asked me once how Mythal would judge her. She was—drunk, it was right after we— _Fenris_.”

               Fenris is reading the email again, an urgency he doesn’t understand rising up his throat. _I will promise you one last thing: you will not see me or Danarius again._

Hawke is pulling at his arm. “Fenris,” she repeats, urgently. “We need to—we need to find Solas.”

               “Hawke?” he says as she stands, still yanking his arm.

               “Fenris she’s going to—she’s going to get herself killed.”

               He stands and grips Hawke’s shoulders, urgently. “Marian,” he says, “what is it?”

               She looks confused, frantic. Her phone rings, in the grass with the pile of her dirty clothes, and she scrambles for it. She looks livid when she checks the caller ID.

               “Anders,” she says, “where the hell were you? Fenris almost—”

               Fenris can’t make out what Anders is saying on the other line, but his voice is high, frantic. The longer he speaks, the wider Hawke’s eyes grow.

               “Define _in the middle of the city_ ,” she says, her voice very small.

               Fenris tries to ignore the growing feeling of dread building in his core. Tries to ignore the clamminess of his palms, the colour draining from Hawke’s face as she listens to Anders on the other end of the line.

               “Okay,” she says, at length. “Okay. We’ll— _fuck_.” She closes her eyes and reaches, blindly, for Fenris. He grabs her hand and that seems to steady her as she just breathes. When she opens her eyes again, her expression is focused, determined.

               “We’ll be there as soon as we can,” she says.

               She hangs up the phone.

               “What is it?” Fenris asks.

               “There’s—there’s a rift the size of a house in the center of Lowtown,” she says. Her voice surprisingly steady. “Right in the middle of the commercial district. Anders says there’s more demons pouring out of it than he’s ever seen.”

               Fenris grits his teeth. “We need Aevalle. She could be anywhere.”

               “Not anywhere,” Hawke says, her jaw set in a firm line. “She’s taking Danarius to face Mythal’s judgement.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the infodump team, I tried to keep it interesting.
> 
> Aevalle's/Evanura's streak of self-loathing is something she really does try to hide. It's pretty amazing no one's gotten her to spill the beans yet, considering all you have to do is [get her drunk and start telling her she's a nice person](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3639087/chapters/8467243). 
> 
> (incidentally, there was a cut text message chapter where Varric and Hawke talk about that scene - there was no new information in it so I cut it, but they had a pretty funny moment where they both beat themselves up for not badgering Aevalle with a million questions.) 
> 
> And aaahhh thanks for all the lovely comments last chapter! It was really nice to see everyone liked it so much considering it's probably my favourite chapter.


	43. That Was the Idea

Cole sits with her all through the flight, in a seat her captors seem to have forgotten exists. He walks beside her as one of Danarius’ men takes her from the plane, after it lands, to the truck waiting on the runway. Large, durable. Military, from the look of it. There are no-nonsense looking men and women standing with the truck, hands on their weapons. They watch her suspiciously as she is shoved, unceremoniously into the back of the truck.

                Danarius says something in Tevene that sounds like a warning. She assumes it’s something along the lines of _I need her in one piece_. Cole’s muttering confirms it.

                Evanura Lavellan climbs to her feet and stands, awkwardly, her hands bound before her in those strange cuffs that repress the Anchor. As if she has any reason to run.

                They bark at her to sit and she obeys. Cole again sits on one side of her, his hand on her knee, and the mercenaries act as if it is completely normal to leave the seat to the left of their captive unattended. The human man on her right holds his rifle steady, easily.

                They drive for _hours._ She has given them all the directions they need, and they do not address her at all for the duration of the journey.

                “Swear it by Mythal and no other,” Cole murmurs, after a time. “A rush, a breath, frantic, flurried— _they know_. Leto remembers.”

                She closes her eyes.

                “You’re smiling,” Cole tells her, and only then does she feel it on her face. He considers her for a moment, as if organising her thoughts, and then he says, “They won’t make it in time.”

                She ducks her head.

                “ _That was the idea_.” Whispering her thoughts into the air, he draws forward and smooths her hair out of her face, behind her ear. “What’s left but longing for an end? But it wasn’t the way you wanted to see Sorrow, one last time.”

                She does not— _cannot_ cry. If they suspect for a moment that she is leading Danarius to what she is, then nothing will stop him from chasing down Fenris again.

                The truck stops. In the space where the mercenaries are distracted by an argument happening up front, she allows herself a single, shaken breath.

                The back of the truck opens, and Danarius stands there, his arms crossed behind his back. He looks incongruous in the wilderness, out of place in his pressed suit and slicked back hair. She imagines the mud on his polished shoes and has to resist the urge to grin.

                “Your people couldn’t be bothered to build roads?” he drones.

                She stares at him, and does not deign to give him an answer.

                She kicks her sandals off as they pull her out of the truck, just to feel the earth beneath her toes. She closes her eyes and draws in a slow breath— _there it is_. The smell of the Veil beginning to thin about her, the rush of the wind in her hair. As soon as they turn off the truck there is a whole second where there is no sound of this age, and she can be ten years old again, standing in the mud, her spirit brother at her side, bringing her a wisp that’s slipped through the Veil.

                Then there is the rattle of metal and plastic, the creak of heavy leather boots and the sound of someone checking their gun, and she is in the present, leading a Tevinter magister to the place she once called home.

                She opens her eyes and she catches a flash of metal, high up in the trees. Impossibly bright. Impossibly quick. None of the shems notice, too busy watching her every movement, so she only presses her lips together and says, “This way,” nodding in the direction they need to go.

                She finds she has to slow down for the shems—more specifically, Danarius. The mercenaries are hampered by the gear they carry, ready for battle with an army from the looks of them, and although she can hear a cacophony of their gear creaking and clacking with every movement, they voice no complaint.

Danarius’ fine polished shoes are quickly covered in mud, the hems of his tailored pants soaked through with water. She resists a smirk as he curses, stopping for the hundredth time to duck his head under a low hanging branch, or as he steps in something foul and rotten that his shem eyes cannot see in the light before dawn.

                Dressed in cut off shorts, no shoes and a loose, light shirt, there are goosebumps on her skin but her bare feet are nimble as her toes touch glistening stones to cross a river, her hands steady as she pulls her light form over ancient, fallen trees. Even with her hands bound before her, she moves among the trees with ease. She balances on great tree roots on the tips of her toes, she grins as all the ancient magic left in this place hums around her. There are flowers that are golden, glittering, gleaming, on every tree and every vine, in every space around her, and the _Virabelasan_ are reduced to a gentle hum, soft whispers of reassurance against her soul.

                She looks back to grin at the shems who follow her. She thinks her gleaming eyes must look wicked, fierce, her teeth bared in something not unlike a threat. She looks wild and utterly inhuman, hair tossed by wind and movement, her feet and half her head bare, vallaslin exposed. Her heart feels light as it hasn’t in years.

                She can hear Mythal’s sentinels in every rush of leaves, see them in every flicker of light between the trees, every shake of a branch high above. If these shems had been foolish enough to come here without her to lead them, they would all be dead now.

               The sun is just rising by the time they reach the Temple. She turns at its entrance and waits for Danarius to catch up, her hands still bound. The Anchor sparks once, bright, before the marks on the cuffs light up and subdues it. She can feel the Veil humming, feel the press of ancient spirits against it from the other side, and she bites her lip to fight away the terror clawing up her spine.

                “Some trick?” Danarius asks her. “A little late for that, isn’t it?”

                She tilts her head to the side. “Listen.”

                He turns. There is a misty quality to the air behind them, a strange humming just on the edge of hearing. Beyond that, the sound of many footsteps approaching, the crackle of magic and the rattle of guns, ammunition.

                “Your Venatori friends are using the mark to track me,” she says.

                “Nightmare is guiding them,” Cole whispers in her ear. “He knows what you’re planning. Defiant little Dalish, holds her head up high and thinks she can beat me—if she ends herself here it is _ruined._ ”

                She straightens her spine. “We will meet no resistance in the temple if you do exactly as I say,” she tells Danarius.

                He meets her gaze, his brow furrowed just slightly. Some of his hair is out of place, his tie slightly askew. She wishes she could send Fenris a picture, but her phone lies abandoned in a garbage can somewhere in Kirkwall’s airport.

                He speaks a few short words in Tevene, and the mercenaries spring into action. Half of them move to block off the bridge, and she feels panic rise in her chest as the rest pull out their weapons. Danarius grabs her arm and pulls her toward the temple proper, and she yanks out of his grasp.

                “You will not get what you want if you burst in there with weapons, drawn,” she snarls. “My Goddess does not give her blessing to those who slaughter her servants in her temple.”

                She’s worried, for a moment, that she’s given it away. After all, hadn’t Danarius killed the sentinels sent to Tevinter with her, all those years ago? But instead he raises a single eyebrow and says, “You wish me to walk through this place without defending myself?”

                She grits her teeth to avoid looking relieved. _Nadas’lin_ always told her she wore her emotions too plainly on her face, that she was incapable of deceit. Joke’s on him, she thinks. How little she had to lie to deceive her friends. _Like father like_ …

                She doesn’t finish that thought. “They will listen to me,” she says.

                She does not elaborate. Danarius frowns at her, briefly, but he does not press.

                Cole walks on her right side as she takes the lead, her head held high, trying not to look up at the shadows in the trees and balconies overhead, trying not to wonder if he’s up there, watching her.

 

“There you two are,” Varric says as he sees Hawke and Fenris approaching down the dark hallway. “Here, Broody, Daisy just got back with Sparkler, Tiny, and shit-tonne of bad news. And, most importantly, your change of clothes, so I can stop staring at your lyrium-framed abs.”

                “Where’s Solas?” Hawke asks even as Fenris tries to grab at her shoulder.

                “Hawke,” he’s saying, urgently, “what do you mean? What judgement are you talking about?”

                She fidgets, but does not shy away from his touch.

                “Chuckles? Daisy just went to wake him up. He’s taking a nap over—”

                Varric barely has time to gesture behind him before Hawke shoves past him, Fenris’ hand falling from her shoulder.

                “Hawke!” he says, louder, as he pursues her, leaving Varric standing in the hallway with a plastic bag full of Fenris’ clothes in it.

                “Thanks Varric,” he grumbles, his voice rumbling in a lazy impression of Fenris. “I was in serious danger of either freezing my nipples off or appearing on the cover of a bad romance novel.”

                He throws his hands up in the air and turns to follow them. “Don’t mention it, Broody! I do what I can all for the thanks of my friends. That’s just the kind of guy I am.”

                “Which way did Merrill go?” Hawke is demanding as Varric exits the hallway.

                “She’s coming back,” Dorian says, “but look at _this_.”

                He’s shoving his phone into her hands. Varric can hear the news feed’s audio playing through the phone’s speaker as he approaches, and Hawke looks down at it with tightness in her jaw.

                “ _Templars and mages have arrived on scene and are coordinating efforts with police to control the demons. Police are urging the public to stay out of the evacuated area...”_

                “That,” Dorian is saying, “is bigger than any of the other rifts we have encountered. By far.”

                “I _know_ ,” she says, impatiently, refusing to take the phone. “Anders just called.”

                “Damn ‘Vints opened it up in the middle of Lowtown,” Bull is grumbling. There’s a great long burn mark from a Rage demon’s claws all along his shoulder, and he’s ripping off what’s left of his shirt while Varania takes a look at it. “We tracked Aevalle as far as the airport, but all we got was her phone in a trash can. Then we saw some shady looking ‘Vints, and we tailed them for a while—then one of them got wise to us, and before we could do anything they opened up the fucking rift.”

                “They’re mad,” Dorian says. “Absolutely—they were going on about how they needed Aevalle to free some Elder One. Practically raving. They said they were going to enter the Fade—of course, then the idiots died opening up a massive rift, so I suppose that problem solved itself.”

                “We got out of there as fast as we could,” Bull continues, a large hand resting on Dorian’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him. “But it’s a fucking mess. There’s more demons pouring out of that thing than I’ve ever seen. We need to find Aevalle, and quickly.”

                “That’s what I’m _trying_ to say,” Hawke says. “She’s about to do something colossally stupid and Solas might know where she’s gone. So I need to go tell Solas so he can figure it out and we can go get her and fix this mess.”

                She turns to go down a passage—probably at random, Varric doesn’t think she knows where Solas really went—and Fenris grabs her arm.

                “Marian,” he says, his voice smooth and firm. She meets his gaze, her eyes wide, and their expressions soften as something passes between them.

                It is absolutely sickening and Varric resists the urge to gag. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Bela miming something obscene, and Cassandra smacking her hand as she looks on, wistfully.

                Hawke finally drops her gaze from Fenris’, and he releases her arm. “When Abelas showed up all those times, he was supposed to be dragging her back to face Mythal’s judgement,” she says, tucking her wet hair behind her ear. “I think it’s like a... trial or something. When we were trapped in the basement where we fought the dragon, she told Solas she was going to return someday, and he—he freaked.”

                “You think she is going there now?” Cassandra asks.

                “But why drag Danarius along?” Bull wonders out loud. “Unless she thinks that Abelas can kill him.”

                Hawke looks at Fenris, as if for permission. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks pointedly away from Varania where she stands, healing Bull’s arm.

                “I... remembered a little,” he says, slowly.

                Varania glances over her shoulder at him. He does not meet her gaze.

                “When she was being tortured for information by Danarius, they brought me down to... _coerce_ her. She made him swear by Mythal, not the Maker, that he wouldn’t hurt me before she agreed to give anything up.”

                Something pained flashes over Varania’s face. She stares back at Bull’s shoulder and Varric pretends not to have noticed.

                Something incredulous passes over Dorian’s face, and Varric remembers that he and Bull haven’t been brought up to speed. “Pardon me,” he says, “I think I misheard that. You just implied that Aevalle is—was there in Tevinter? Prior to...” he pauses to think of the best way to say it, then gestures abruptly to Fenris’ bare chest. “That. How old exactly is she supposed to be?”

                “One hundred and three years old,” comes Solas’ voice from the hallway Hawke had not moved towards. He and Merrill walk out, Merrill keeping her distance, and he clasps his arms behind his back as he looks down his nose at the Tevinter mage. In spite of his cool tone, his face looks drawn and pale. “A child by elvhen standards.”

                “Solas,” Hawke says.

                His stare as he looks at her is narrow and panicked. “I heard,” he says, softer than Varric expects. He almost feels sorry for the guy— _almost_.

                “Explain to me why we’re trusting him again?” Dorian asks, his hands at his side sparking with barely contained electricity.

                “Because he’s Bluebird’s dad,” Varric answers before Solas can start a fight.

                Dorian visibly jerks, blinking with shock, while Bull mutters, “Called it,” under his breath.

                “What?” Dorian turns just long enough to glare at Bull, then immediately returns to scrutinizing Solas. “I don’t see a family re—”

                Solas scowls at Varric, his nose wrinkling.

                “—Oh, there it is.”

                “We are wasting time,” Solas snaps. He looks to Hawke again. “You are certain?”

                Hawke only nods.

                “What exactly is this judgement?” Dorian asks. The lightning is gone from his hands but he approaches Solas with a suspicious expression, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “And why is she trapping Danarius with it?”

                “In the days of Elvhenan,” Solas begins, his expression focusing once again, “Mythal was a protector, a figure who enacted justice in the face of great wrongs. Criminals brought before her were to pray for her mercy, to bend their knee and submit to Justice in her name—oathbreakers, among them.” Solas closes his eyes. “A shadow of her remains in that place. I fear it has no kindness left in it. If Evanura were to submit to her judgement now, she would certainly die.”

                No one says anything, and they can all hear Merrill’s shuddering breath as she brings her hand up to her mouth.

                Dorian is the one who breaks the silence. “How dramatic of her,” he grumbles, crossing his arms. “So. Where has she gone, and how do we get her back?”

                “To Mythal’s southern temple, in the Arbour Wilds,” Solas answers.

                “Shit,” says Bull, “they have more than half a day on us. And probably a private jet, maybe a helicopter...”

                “There must be an _eluvian_ ,” Merrill says, and her tone is so high and something that is too much like pleading as she looks up at Solas. Her eyes are _too wide_ , and the set of Solas’ jaw _too firm_ , and Varric feels his heart drop like it’s loose in his chest, solid, heavy.

                “The _eluvian_ in Mythal’s inner sanctum was destroyed,” he says, with the slightest shake of his head. “The closest is days away.”

                “Anyone have a private jet they’ve been hiding on us?” Isabela asks, crossing the glade to stand with Merrill. She bows her head and twines her fingers in Merrill’s, and whatever she whispers is soft and gentle, and it stays between them.

                “I left it in Tevinter with my yacht and fleet of outrageously expensive cars,” Dorian quips, dry and low. “What _do_ we have at our disposal?”

                “I can buy everyone plane tickets,” Hawke says. “What’s the closest airport to where we’re going?”

                “They shut down the airport in Kirkwall when the rift opened,” Bull says.

                “But where are we _now_?” Hawke hisses, looking at Solas.

                “The wilds are impossible to traverse by anything but foot,” he says, his brow furrowed in thought even as he dismisses Hawke’s question with a wave of his hand. “The elvhen had no use for conventional roads to connect their cities.”

                “She’s leading humans,” Merrill says, “humans who aren’t used to walking. Maybe with—”

                “The sentinels stalk the forests around the temple,” Solas interrupts, abruptly. “With Evanura at their forefront, our enemies will not be deterred. We, however, would be forced to battle them at every turn.”

                Fenris crosses his arms and grumbles, ”For one so willing to _help_ , you are certainly terrible at it.”

                Solas shoots him a _look_. “Remind me,” he says, his words laced with spite, “whose failed bid for freedom landed us in this mess.”

                Fenris’ hackles rise and he looks about ready to jump Solas, a snarl forming on his lips, when Dorian says, “The rift!”

                Everyone turns and stares at him at once.

                “We all thought the Venatori were opening rifts to try and lure Aevalle,” he says, looking down at the screen on his phone. “But why open a rift of that size if they know Aevalle is no longer in the city? Why go through all that trouble?”

                Varric doesn’t quite follow, but something lights up in Solas’ eyes. “Let me see,” he says, holding out his hand.

                Dorian passes over his phone and Solas stares intently down at the screen, still playing the news broadcast.

                “We’ve seen them try to manipulate them before,” Dorian continues as Solas examines the footage of the rift. “What if—what if they could truly enter the Fade? What if they weren’t trying to lose us at all, they were trying to track Aevalle _through the Fade_?”

                “The rift is, for its size, remarkably stable. It is possible that they have managed to physically tether it to the Anchor itself…” Solas appears to be thinking rapidly, his eyes wide as they flick back and forth. “I would normally say that a feat such as this would be impossible. However, with enough lyrium...”

                Fenris mutters, “ _Of course_ ,” under his breath.

                Solas’ gaze falls on Fenris, on his bare chest and the markings there, and something unreadable passes over his features.

                “It might work,” he says, his expression hardening into sharp lines and a determined furrow of his brow.

                “Only if we can get to the rift,” Dorian says, “before the demons kill us. Or the Templars, for that matter.”

                Hawke grins. “Leave that to me,” she says, that clever gleam about her eyes that tells Varric whatever she has planned is going to be trouble.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably be posting some extras/deleted scenes/etc over the next little while - one of Hawke's dream sequences I had to cut because it would have given too much away, probably Solas' adventures with Evanura from his point of view because [I've been listening to this song way too much lately](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h3lWwMHFhnA) and why should I be happy ever, and some background stories that don't have any bearing on the plot but they'll probably be fun anyway. So don't freak out when this inevitably gets lumped into a series, _I'm not writing a sequel to this_. I really need to be working on that Rebel Heart sequel that's collecting dust on my hard drive. :|
> 
> [If you're not following my writing tumblr, you should check it out](http://dinoswrites.tumblr.com). I've posted a couple short little drabbles the last week that turned out really well. Might be posting them here too.


	44. A Wayward Child

_Venavis_ was the first word he said to her.

                After all the years since that moment—a heartbeat, a breath, a blink in the eye compared to the vastness of the life he has lived—Abelas can still close his eyes and remember with absolute clarity the flare of anger in her eyes, the flash of her throat as she clenched her teeth, the gleam of her green eyes catching the sunlight filtering in through the gaps in the temple roof. Her chin drawing _up_ as she met his gaze, defiant, enraged.

                She did not cry out when she hit the floor, dropped by the sentinels who bound her and brought her there.  Her human companion spit curses at their captors, her yellow eyes bright with rage, but she stilled her struggles at a bark from the Dalish on the floor.

                He almost accused her of breaking an oath— _you swore you would not come here again, Inquisitor_. But her eyes were green, her black hair in a long braid down her back, and there was a rage about her that he never sensed with the last woman to come to Mythal’s temple bearing Fen’harel’s power.

                _Can you sense it_? the sentinels whispered, their eyes wide and their weapons tight in their hands. _She is one of us_.

                He watches her now from a balcony as she leads the _shemlen_ through the petitioner’s path. Once again she comes to this place wearing the guise of the world moving around them, although she has not aged with it. She looks like a wayward _da’len_ coming home—piercings on her brow and ears, exposed scalp on half her head, new and old scars running up her arms and legs. A solemn expression on her face. Her bare feet cross the stones with reverence, with silence, and the _shemlen_ follow her in boots and hard shoes, weapons drawn, muttering to themselves uneasily. They turn with every step, looking for enemies they know _must be here_. But he and his people know this temple too well, know the magic and the press of the Fade through the thinness of the veil in this place, and they will not be seen until they wish it.

                “Tell me,” the _shemlen_ in charge says, his voice thick with a Tevene accent and the crisp lines of his well-tailored suit ruined from the long trek behind them, “why I am not just blasting down doors and taking what I came here for.”

                “My people would slaughter you where you stand,” she says. There is no tremble in her voice—it is not a lie, not quite. He and the other sentinels are certain they _could_ kill the invaders, as well as the forces coming to battle just beyond the bridge. But their numbers are well diminished after Corypheus’ assault one hundred years past, and he is not certain how many more would be lost in such a battle.

                “Worried about your little _family_ here?” There is condescension in the man’s tone, something that plays at being light but only comes out twisted, wrong. “Their lives were not part of our bargain.”

                She shrugs. Compassion walks at her side, holding her bound hands in his and he whispers something to her with every step.

                _I should be there_ , he thinks, rather foolishly. He banishes the thought from his mind.

                She tosses a look over her shoulder at the _shemlen_ behind her mid-stride, one brow raised as if in curiosity. Even from this distance, he can see the trembling of her hands. After all this time, she is still a terrible liar. But he cannot find any fault in her for it.

                “It took how many of your men to subdue me?” she says. “And I am a child in the eyes of those serving here. How much blood magic will it take to bring down an army of the greatest warriors from the height of _Elvhenan_? And should you win, you will kneel and ask my Goddess for her blessing? After slaughtering those tasked with protecting her sanctum?”

               The _shemlen_ works his jaw back and forth. Out of his element, here—he is a man of fine wines and exquisite tastes, halls richly decorated with living slaves and material wastes. But he would have blended so seamlessly into Elvhenan as it was, and there’s an irony there somewhere that Abelas might appreciate, were it any other leading this Tevinter Magister to certain death. Himself, even.

                No. That is a thought he cannot allow—cannot follow through with. Perhaps if the oaths he swore ages and eons past weren’t plain on his face, branches of green curling up his skin, if he were not utterly powerless to stop her.

                _Da’sahlin_ , he thinks, instead, and the truth of it twists in his gut. More like a branding iron than a knife—it _burns_ , and there is nothing but his own regret rising in his mouth and pooling there, and he finds his lips cannot part and allow it to spill out.

                The first time she called him _Nadas’lin_ , he hadn’t quite understood. He came and interrupted her training, as always, corrected the over-extension of her posture as she threw a knife, and she had said, _Ma serannas, Nadas’lin_ , the sarcasm lilting off her tongue in her curious Dalish accent.

                He remembers her expression still. She was _mortified_. He does not know when she started calling him that in her head, but that was the first time she allowed it to slip through her lips in his presence.

                He’s not entirely sure when she stopped calling him _Abelas_ altogether. But when has he ever called her _Evanura?_  Once, he thinks, something like twenty years ago, her hair cut close to her scalp and her words full of spite when she told him she was the Dread Wolf’s child, that he had taken what was left of Mythal for her sake.

                _What are you waiting for, Abelas_? _Drag me home for judgement._

                Even then, he couldn’t do it. Even with her daring him, her hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white where he pinned her wrists against the wall. Her lip bloodied from their joke of a battle—she hadn’t put up a fight at all.

                He searched her eyes for a trace of his _Da’sahlin_ , for any hint that she could be saved. He found only rage, only a loathing strong enough to hold back a wall of despair.

                He dropped her wrists. She stared at him, uncomprehending.

                _No, Evanura. I will not._       

 

There are certain… _unique_ challenges to being Kirkwall’s chief of police. Usually those challenges involve the interesting shapes her mountains of paperwork have become while she’s off getting her hands dirty, sitting in on patrols or digging through basements for Hawke— _without so much as a thank you_. Some days those challenges _are_ Hawke; a text message that says _hey Aveline just so you know there’s a busted up factory in Lowtown and if anyone asks demons did it_ being one of the more recent ones. She suspects the wreckage made of the Hanged Man yesterday should be included on that list, but maybe if she just pretends it was a simple bar room brawl between Tevinter tourists and Kirkwall locals no one will bother to correct her.

                Blood mages and apostates—other than Hawke—are on her list more frequently than she’d care to admit. She’s lost count of the number of times Meredith’s reamed her out for not making the call at the first suspicion of apostasy, mostly because Donnic is always waiting at home after those meetings with cheap wine and cheaper Fereldan takeout. The threats all tend to blur together after the third time she’s heard them anyway.

                This, however. This is firmly above her pay grade.

                “For the love of—” Her curses are drowned out by the roar of the helicopter above them. It moves too fast and with the strange green light, demon fire and rain, she can’t make out the logo on the side. “I thought we had everything _grounded_!”

                Beside her, Donnic is barking orders into his radio. “Johnson, get us the name of the station off that copter on its next pass.”

                It’s above Donnic’s pay grade too, she thinks, but she supposes they both knew what they were getting into. She can’t afford to worry now.

                No, she has to worry about the rift itself in the distance, sparking green and bright and _growing_ , a horde of demons pouring from it. Magefire, lightning, the shouts of Templars and the noise of gunfire are the only things keeping the creatures at bay, but the swarm grows, pulsing like an exposed artery with each desperate _shove_ the demons make away from the rift.

                “This is not working,” Meredith Stannard is saying, her pale hair slipping from the strict bun she keeps it in as the rain pelts down on her head unobstructed. Her gaze is steel as it is lit by a spark of lightning from a mage’s staff.

                “If, perhaps,” Orsino says through gritted teeth, “you would allow the mages unimpeded access to restricted files on the rifts that appeared almost a century ago, we would be able to figure out _what_ it is, _how_ it was made, and how we might get close enough to close it.”

                “An idle supposition,” Meredith growls. “Your _hypothesis_ that this rift is from the same source as all those years ago is only that— _a guess_. I am not about to allow you to waltz into the archives into whatever sensitive information you please!”

                “There isn’t anyone alive who knows how to deal with this!” Orsino snaps, throwing his arm out to the chaos that once was central Lowtown.

                Aveline’s phone begins to jingle a familiar tune in her pocket.

                Everyone turns and looks at her.

                She closes her eyes and sighs. She excuses herself as calmly as she can and walks a few paces away from the others before she pulls out the phone.

                “Hawke,” Aveline says, “no.”

                “That’s _rude_ , Aveline.” Hawke, as always, sounds too loud and too brash to have had nothing to do with this.

                “I’ve been calling you since yesterday,” she says, her voice low. “Where the hell—for _fuck’s sake_.”

                The news helicopter makes another pass, and Aveline allows herself to be distracted long enough to try to see what’s on its side. It passes behind a building and she doesn’t quite catch it.

                “Oh yeah. Uh—look that thing in the Hanged Man was an absolute mess but I one hundred percent promise you that everyone who died totally deserved it.”

                “ _Hawke_.” Aveline pauses to rub the rain off her face, now outside of Vivienne’s barrier. “Hawke, just please tell me you are at home, with your dog. Better yet, that you’re out at your cabin and you are nowhere near this mess. Promise me that you’re not calling me because you have some half-baked scheme to save the day.”

                Hawke exhales, and Aveline can hear her Tevinter friend arguing with someone in the background. “Okay first? It’s not even my scheme. Except the calling you part, that was my brilliant addition.” She pulls the phone away from her face long enough to say, “Yes, Dorian, it’s brilliant you can stop _critiquing it_ like you’ve got a better idea!”

                “I don’t need you to rush in and back me up on every strange problem in Kirkwall.”

                “I think you’ve got like ninety percent of the problems in Kirkwall covered. But—trust me, Aveline, you need the help with this one.”

                “Are you _here_?” Aveline asks, exasperated. She tries to stand as tall as she can and peer over the heads of the officers, Templars and mages swarming around her. She looks towards the security fence, where a crowd of people have gathered—reporters, many of them, with their camera crews, trying to catch a glimpse of the rift beyond them, but many more still are people who live and work in the area and have nowhere else to go.

                She thinks she makes out a familiar hoodie, then a flash of a bare arm with white tattoos, but they’re so brief she can’t be sure.

                “Aveline?”

                The voice on the other end of the phone sound suddenly so sincere that it makes Aveline’s heart race in panic. “Hawke?”

                “I uh—if I don’t come back, then thank you, and I’m sorry. For everything.”

                “For—what? Hawke? _Hawke_?”

                Aveline barely has the time to look at her phone and see that Hawke has hung up before there is renewed shouting on the far side of the enclosure, where the Templar reinforcements are waiting to relieve those in the fighting.

                “Shit,” she says, right before a burst of bright magic flares up right in their center.

                She knows the spell—has seen it more than once, before she was Chief of Police. From the driver’s seat of that beat up car she used for undercover work in Darktown, the Hawke siblings and Anders crammed into the back. She’s more than familiar with the gleam in Anders’ eyes and the flick of his wrist as he calls forth a little wisp, a smart little thing, and gives it a clever command.

                Such little spirits are perfectly harmless, but with a little help from a mage, they are capable of brilliant displays of magic.

                It looks like a firework has gone off in the center of the Templar forces, a blue whirl of light that snaps and spark and shoots up into the sky before crashing back down, turning orange then yellow and then cycling, rapidly, through a whirlwind of colours Aveline fails to identify. The Templars are screaming, shouting, too startled by the veracity of the supposed attack to realise that the arms that they raise to defend their faces are unharmed by the sparks of light.

                As the source of the light begins to move along the ground, there are a few shouts in the crowd of civilians behind Aveline. She doesn’t even turn—among the rush of a group of people running past her she sees a blur of a tawny-skinned elf with lines on his arms that are burning bright and white, and an apostate in a dark hooded sweater with a ball of flame in each hand, and although Aveline only catches her wicked grin as she passes, it’s more than enough to confirm who it is.

                Meredith, howling in rage at the distraction among the Templar ranks, does not even notice. Orsino spares a single raised brow in Aveline’s direction, a question unspoken between them that she cannot answer.

                Nearby, Donnic is barking into his radio. “The Hawke is in,” he says, a familiar phrase among the rank and file that used to patrol Darktown with Aveline and Donnic. Aveline can hear familiar voices raised in jubilation, and she pretends not to know precisely who they all are. “Provide cover fire. Standby for further orders. And—Maker’s breath, _somebody_ get me the name off that helicopter!”

 

Running full tilt into a horde of demons honestly seemed like a good idea five minutes ago.

                She lost sight of the others steps into the fray—Fenris is ahead of her, lyrium gleaming in his flesh and that broadsword in his hands. He draws the fire of a Despair demon and Hawke’s flames rush across its exposed back before the ice can crawl up Fenris’ arms. She thinks she can hear Bull yelling, and she thinks that the crackle of lightning nearby must be Dorian’s. She trips over a tree root that’s as high out of the ground as her knee and Fenris catches her. She gapes down long enough to identify it as very, _very_ old—Merrill’s work—before Fenris yanks her to her feet again, and they keep moving.

                They can’t see the rift any longer, the air around them thick with demons—she can’t even identify some of them, strange shapeless things that have too many limbs and not enough eyes. Fire keeps them back, fire and the warmth of Fenris’ hand on her wrist, and she knows that there’s too many of them to fight so they pick their battles as they barrel forward, guided by the hint of green light over their heads, by the electric warping of the Veil in the air that makes the hair on Hawke’s arms stand on end.

                She quickly loses track of how many they kill and how many they rush past, claws or hands reaching for them and just missing. Twice there’s a spotlight overhead, and she wonders if they can even be seen through the pulsing mass of the demons surrounding them.

                A Fear demon comes for them, once—Fenris gags like he smells something awful, and that’s how Hawke knows it’s coming. “Think of something happy!” she yells, whirling on her heel to protect Fenris’ back as he drives his sword through a Rage demon.

                “What?” he yells back, coughing as if through a haze of something truly foul, and Hawke flares her barrier around them just in time for a number of thin, gangly spider legs to slam into it.

                “You are too late,” Fear is snarling, a thick and unidentifiable liquid seeping from between its too-many teeth. “Nightmare will never let the chosen vessel die.”

                She yells something wordless and bright, and when faced with her flames Fear retreats, its dark laugh quickly drowned out by the snarls and screaming of the lesser demons surrounding them.

                She almost chases after it. But Solas had been clear, crammed into the back of Cassandra’s bloodstained truck with her and Fenris, that the plan was to conserve as much strength as they all could and get to the rift. As soon as Solas and Fenris both got to the rift, Solas would do his best to make it safe for travel.

                _You will be tempted_ , Solas told him, in the quiet moments in the car. _With the spell using your lyrium and the proximity to the rift, you will be a beacon for demons._

                Fenris didn’t say anything. Hawke watched his jaw work back and forth. 

 _I will not be able to help you_ , Solas says, his gaze severe as he meets Fenris' eye. _The others will be protecting us from the demons attacking your body. You must resist temptation on your own._

                _Will you be alright?_ Hawke asked, seeing Fenris clench his hand into a fist on her knee.

                _I am not afraid_ , he told her, and she reached over to touch the red bandanna on his wrist—a gesture to comfort without thinking. He grabbed her hand instead, and she knew he was lying.

                Now, he sees her looking backwards and grabs her hand, pulling her forward. “Focus, Hawke!” he calls, and she follows.

                The rift itself, when they stumble up to it, is truly massive.

                It hovers above the ground, crackling green and white, and there’s Solas, magic leaping from his empty hands with a focus and command that makes Hawke feel like a child playing at _mages and templars_ instead of an apostate with years of underground brawling experience behind her. Nearby she sees Merrill slam her staff into the ground, and ancient tree roots tear up the pipes and concrete to wrap around the limbs of a Terror that’s got Isabela pinned. There’s Dorian, using the crackle of lightning to keep a Despair demon off Anders as he heals a long gash on Bull’s chest, and Varric is hiding behind Cassandra as she drives a Rage demon back with her shield.

                “Quickly!” Solas calls when he sees them.

                Fenris looks up at the rift and hesitates, his eyes very wide. The strange green light makes him look sickly, his hair otherworldly.

                “Last chance to go home and let the authorities deal with it,” Hawke says, giving her best reckless smile.

                He looks down at her, startled. She squeezes his hand.

                “I’ll cover you,” she says.

                He smiles then. There’s still something like fear in his eyes, but he nods and it feels like trust. He drops her hand and goes to where Solas stands, waiting.

                There is no time to go over the plan again—whispered in a rush as they moved through the crowd. There are no details to double check, nothing to clarify; the plan is in itself elegant in its simplicity, and that’s the only kind of plan Hawke thinks will ever work with this particular crew.

 _Keep the demons off Fenris and Solas_. Easy, right?

                Fenris holds out his hands for Solas, palms up, and the Dread Wolf touches the curving lines of lyrium at his wrists. Fenris’ face twists in something that’s either determination or pain as the markings begin to glow, and Solas closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they are glowing with something old, ancient, and powerful—something that makes the skin on her back crawl, and her hands ball into fists.

                A long tendril of green light bursts from the rift, and Dorian dispels it with a wave and a yell. Behind her, Cassandra and Bull are holding off the demons that have already emerged, pushing forward with weapons and snarls. She’s sure that somewhere out of her vision Isabela is doing the same, and she curses softly to herself as her hands move in jerking, unfamiliar motions.

                A tendril of light dissipates. Two others take its place. Hawke dispels the one closest to the two elven men where they stand with their heads bowed, Fenris’ features twisting in pain and his markings blazing brighter than the rift.

                Something hot and defensive curls in her heart. She does not understand it, and there isn’t a breath or a moment to even attempt to.

                There are too many for Hawke to dispel—another, another, and she can no longer see Fenris, demons pouring out of the rift faster than Hawke’s uneasy grasp on the spell can put to rest. She turns at a shriek, dropping her last attempt halfway through the incantation—never properly Circle trained, Hawke is more hedge mage than anything else, no matter how many disapproving looks her father gave her for her lack of focus. She exchanges the slow build that is taught in tall glass buildings and calls something a little more primal to her hands.

                The Despair demon behind her falls, and then Hawke is overrun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean it's been a month since I updated this (almost! Almost!)
> 
> Okay first of all: I'm sorry. I meant to update earlier but this chapter in particular was giving me trouble. (as with all chapters that give me trouble, it was split into two. Of course) It went through... several iterations. Extenuating life circumstances also meant I didn't have as much time to devote to writing as I like. I won't list them all here, but the most entertaining reason is my graphics card lighting on fire, and the most exciting one is that I got a new and much better paying job! 
> 
> Also is everyone else stoked for Trespasser? I AM. Wish it was coming out on my day off though ;_;


	45. May I?

Fenris’ apartment is quiet, the only light when he slips in spilling through the door to his bedroom. Exhausted as he is after his shift, he finds himself smiling. As he runs a hand through his unruly hair he drops his keys on the counter. He slips off his sandals and places them neatly near the door, next to— _one_ of hers. He has to hunt for the other one, probably kicked off with a lazy gesture _like always_ and then immediately forgotten. He finds it by the door to the spare bedroom—he uses it for storage more than anything else, although he doesn’t have much to keep in there. He’s thought about getting a roommate, but he makes rent just fine on his own.

                He pushes his bedroom door open the rest of the way, blinking to adjust to the change in light. But he finds himself smiling again when he sees Hawke, sprawled out on his bed, his thin blanket tangled about her limbs. She’s face-down into an open book, a page folded backwards under her nose.

                He slips the book out as gently as he can, his hands passing into his vision—marked only by a couple scars from burns or the slip of a knife. He uncreases the page and presses it as flat as he can before he closes the book—a mystery novel—and places it on the table beside the bed.

                It’s—a tall bed. That gives him some pause. He runs his fingers over the headboard, and the wood grain under his fingers doesn’t seem quite right. Like the edges are too sharp.

                But Hawke shifts and breathes a soft sigh, and the peculiarities of the bed are forgotten as Fenris sees the pale scar that crosses the bridge of her nose, the gentle smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

                He bends down and kisses the top of her head. Breathes in the smell of yeast and sugar, her sweat. His own, transferred from the bedclothes in the oppressive summer heat. She does not stir, so he leaves her there, turning the light off before he closes the door behind him.

                The living room is neat and tidy—he has few possessions, but a few cookbooks are sitting on the coffee table. There’s a ring-stain from a coffee mug that isn’t there any longer, and little scraps from arrows being fletched— _no_. There’s nothing there. He blinks, setting down his knife bag; a canvas roll he bought from a kitchen supply store. Sturdy, grey, impersonal.

                The door to his bedroom opens and Hawke stumbles out, rubbing her eyes with the back of a hand. She’s wearing one of his old shirts and her red underwear, and he finds himself smirking at her as she blinks blearily in the moonlight. He imagines he must be difficult to make out, illuminated only by what comes in the window. But all her sharp edges are made more stark, somehow, in the light that only elven eyes see well in.

                “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says. “I’ll be there soon. Go back to sleep.”

                She stretches, and he watches his shirt ride up to expose the top of her underwear, the curve of her stomach and the dip of her hips. He hears her joints pop and crack—there’s a twist of her right wrist that troubles him. She hasn’t been wearing that brace the doctor recommends.

                “I’m awake now,” she says, half-dry and half-suggestive, as she moves towards the fridge.

                Fenris watches her walk the whole way, the slight shuffle of her steps as she attempts to sway her hips, attempts a show for him that she is still not quite awake enough to keep up.

                “You would sleep better in your own house,” he tells her as he sits on the sofa.

                She starts to dig around in the fridge and laughs, low and sweet. The sound of it makes something feel warm on his skin. It feels strangely specific, but he can’t quite figure out why.

                Hawke finds a half-empty wine bottle, a beer for herself and a wine glass in the cupboard. She notices Fenris watching as she takes the cork out, and she gives a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows, a little sway of her hips as she pours the wine.

                He laughs. Those come so easily these days—he finds more reasons to smile than to brood with Hawke around.

                She pops the cap off the beer with a flourish and comes up to him—saunters, more like, or attempts it anyway. There is still no clever quip for his insinuation that she does not need to stay _every_ night. He finds he is waiting for it still, even as she hands him the wine glass, even as she swings one leg over his and rests her knees on the couch on either side of him.

                He raises a hand to her waist to steady her as she wavers precariously. He thinks for sure she will collapse on him, laughing, but she steadies herself as she takes a long swig from her beer. He watches her throat as she drinks—bared to his gaze, pale in a wash of moonlight coming through the open curtains. He finds himself thinking of the taste of her sweat where he can see it glisten in the curve of her collarbone. One advantage to the oppressive heat of summer.

                “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, _finally_. She leans in to catch his mouth with her own—her kiss is insistent, he finds, the movement of her lips as she takes his own possessive, determined. She pulls back long enough to murmur, “I feel safe with you,” against his skin.

                Fenris feels his brow furrow—he tries to recall Hawke expressing that particular thought to him before and finds his memory lacking. But she catches his lips again and hers are _so soft_ that he writes it off as half-asleep rambling. Besides, he’s not going to complain if this is what it gets him—her hips moving ever so slightly in the air above his, the pressure of her bare legs sliding against his clothing, the taste of beer from her lips on his and the chill of her bottle where it rests on his thigh.

                Fenris remembers the time and breaks the kiss. “Your alarm goes off in two hours,” he reminds her, his lip catching on hers as he whispers.

                Her thumb starts to draw unfamiliar patterns on the side of his neck. “I don’t really care,” she tells him, her voice low in a way that makes his chest swell and his core burn hot. Her eyes search his, their grey washed out in the pale moonlight, and Fenris wonders if maybe they gleam a little brighter than they should.

                But she is so beautiful, and she is _here_. Here where she has no business being, wearing his cheap clothing that is too worn around the seams and ratted besides.

                She seems to catch his wandering gaze, seems to know his thoughts on the matter before they are fully formed. “Stop that,” she chides, her mouth drawing lower to catch his bottom lip between her teeth. As gentle a warning as she ever gives. “I’m not anywhere else. I’m here because I want you, Fenris. No one else.”

                His skin feels warm where she’s kissing him, where her hand is wandering at the collar of his shirt. He rolls his head back to expose his neck, obliging, and she presses her lips to the bare, unmarked skin there with an eager hum and a gentle laugh.

                “Not someone with more money?” he asks.

                “Only if you get a raise,” she whispers, her kisses drawing along the place his pulse flutters against his skin.

                “Not someone more agreeable?”

                She hums again.

                “Not someone—”

                “Fenris,” she murmurs.

                He feels the stem of the wine glass pressing into his fingers for how tight he’s gripping it. “Hawke,” he says, his voice catching in his throat.

                She leans back and plucks the glass from his fingers. She places it and her beer on the coffee table behind them. Then she takes both sides of his face in her hands, leaning in, and she meets his gaze with her bright, clever eyes.

                “You should be proud,” she tells him. “You should look at all you have made for yourself, and then you’ll know why I’m here.” She kisses him and he tries to chase her lips, but she draws back to pull at the hem of his shirt.

                “You’re everything I ever wanted, Fenris,” she says, tugging harder at his shirt.

                He obliges, allowing her to lift it off him. When her kisses resume they start at his collarbone and wander down his smooth, unmarked skin. Guided by no lines or scars or markings, her lips carve a path across his flesh that leads only downwards. His hands slip away from her waist as she draws herself further down, as her hands slip under the belt loops of his jeans, as her fingers wander from there to the button and the pull of his zipper.

                “May I?” she asks, her voice low and rich, a clever smile curving on her lips.

                His hands are on the couch on either side of him. “Hawke,” he says, gently, “you have to work—”

                “May I?” she repeats, and the corners of her lips twitch down.

                Fenris says nothing, his breath caught in his throat as he watches her expression.

                “Fenris,” she pleads, and he is suddenly aware of the shine in her eyes, how it is _too_ bright, how her smile is suddenly _too_ forced, and she climbs back on top of him before he can make sense of it.

                “I just want a piece of you,” she coos into his ear, her fingers wandering over his body without purpose, lost without his thoughts to guide them. “You’re so—strong and—you are greater than that world has ever allowed you to be. But I know—”

                He shoves her off of him and stumbles to his feet—over scattered shafts of half-fletched arrows, over half-empty coffee mugs, over the leather strap of the knife bag made by hand _for him_. A glance down at his arms, at his bare chest, and he can see the lyrium flare in his skin again, bright and white, and the way Hawke’s eyes _burn_ at the sight of it sends a chill down his spine.

                “You could be so much more,” Hawke says, a hunger and a voice that is not hers coming from her lips. “If only you would let me in—”

                “Where’s Hawke?” Fenris snaps.

                “You don’t need her,” the demon hisses, sharp and cutting. Its eyes flick over the lyrium burning in Fenris’ skin— _burning_ , hot and bright enough that the skin around it has gone numb from the pain. “She will keep you as a pet—just like Danarius, just like Aevalle. Or is it Evanura?”

                Fenris feels his stomach turn.

                “ _Think_ , Fenris,” the demon purrs, beginning to circle. “Think of what you could have been without her _kindness_. Her _charity_. Where would you be now if Evanura never tried to help you?”

                “My head split open on the ground,” Fenris spits.

                The demon laughs. “How _loyal_ ,” it croons. “Like a guard dog after all. You’ve simply traded one master for another.”

                He clenches his hands into fists at his sides. “Are you _done_?”

                “Don’t believe me?” The demon tilts its head, Hawke’s hair falling over its shoulder in a tangle of curls. “Has she fooled you with gentler words, Fenris? Are they that much sweeter than the lies Danarius told you?”

                Fenris has no answer to that.

                “Think of all we could do together,” the demon croons, circling closer to Fenris. Not brave enough to touch, but taking his silence as assent. “I would watch from your eyes as your hand rips Danarius’ heart from his chest. _Revenge_ , Fenris, by your hand.”

                His mouth is dry. “And Aevalle?” he hears himself asking, as if from a distance.

                The demon smiles. It is not Hawke’s smile, quick clever and gentle, but something broad and sharp; it exposes too much of her teeth, its eyes glitter with too much glee. The demon circles, _tighter_ , and he feels a flutter of its fingertips brushing along his skin, a sharp pain as they brush against the ignited lyrium.

                “You will be free,” the demon whispers, the weight of its words a vow with a wicked edge. “You will have all you deserve and more.”

                The demon pauses in front of Fenris and presses its hand flat against his chest.

                “Let me do this for you, Fenris,” it whispers against his ear, leaning in. “ _Let me in_ ,” it says, and its voice crackles with an electric charge that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

                He grabs the demon’s wrist and yanks it from his chest. The demon stumbles back and Fenris launches forward, hand out as if to reach in and rip out the demon’s heart.

                It dissipates in a rush of green mist before Fenris can touch it. The apartment falls away around Fenris, revealing a shifting expanse of _nothingness_ , and the demon’s twisted laughter echoes in Fenris’ ears as he turns, searching for it.

                “Your loss, _Leto_ ,” the demon taunts, and Fenris is left only with the impression of a hollow feeling in his chest as the lyrium begins to truly _sear_ into his skin, lines of flame and ice burning through his flesh.

                Fenris opens his eyes, and he is kneeling before the rift, Solas shouting.

                “Stand!” he yells. “Don’t give in! We’re almost through!”

                Fenris grits his teeth and plants one foot on the ground.

 

Hawke pays little attention to what, exactly, is attacking her. She sees little more than twisted faces and snarling mouths, strange mockeries of faces that might be normal, mortal, but with too many eyes or accompanying too thin limbs that twist and curl in impossible angles. Hawke cannot see Fenris, Solas, the others, can only see her own hands or feet as she strikes, and she laughs because she has to, because she hasn’t the breathing room for a word or a thought that isn’t _survive this_.

                She thinks she sees Fear again, and she hears words that she can’t understand. Something cool on the back of her neck, something sharp and pungent in the air—something like the cleaner they use in hospitals.

                Hawke finds fire takes care of most things that come for her. When Rage rears its ugly head, even her ice seems to burn hot, bright, as it bursts from her fists.

                Hawke drops with fire and a kick, and her palms on the wet concrete underneath are sweaty, cut, bleeding. There is space, a lull, and Hawke doesn’t even catch her breath. She whirls, looking, searching, heart hammering, and there’s Fenris.

                Solas is holding him up now, Fenris having fallen nearly to his knees. Her heart rattles in her chest at the sight of Fenris gripping Solas’ arms with white-knuckled hands. But he breathes, his shoulders shaking with the effort of it, and he slams one foot _hard_ on the ground. His lyrium markings _burn_ , brighter and whiter than Hawke has ever seen them, and Fenris rises to his feet, his face twisting in pain, in determination.

                Solas is yelling something, his own features set and grim.

                Hawke starts to move toward them, but there is a crackle of light that separates her from the rift and the elves before it. It is green-white and thin, and she blinks and her vision is blocked by a shadow that uncurls, rises to its feet, and when it stands tall before her it is so large, so great, that she wavers just a little at the sight of it.

                The Pride demon looks down at her and bares its teeth, wicked and gleaming, and she hears the crackle of the lightning along its whip as its laugh rises from its chest deep and strong.

                “You,” Hawke says, her lips drawing into a snarl, “are in my _way_.”

                Pride raises its whip, and Hawke lunges.

                For such a long time it has been impossible to imagine a fight without Fenris or Anders or Aevalle at her back, without Merrill’s stone magic or Cassandra’s determined smirk. She cannot hear Isabela laughing, cannot see the red dot of Bianca’s sight, cannot feel more than hear Dorian and Bull, electric and vibrant and making such a game of death and despair.

                There is no arrow to distract a reaching fist—when it comes for her she must dive to the side. There is no rough and familiar grip to pull her up, to steady her—when she hits the ground, she scrambles on her own to avoid the crack of the whip, the static of it dancing along her skin as she just avoids it. The rain is cold on her skin, mixing with her own blood, demon ichor and whatever else she has come across in this mad dash for their only hope of getting out of this alive, and her hair is soaked flat against her head but it stays out of her eyes, so she can see the demon above her in all its terrible glory.

                “You will stand against me alone?” Pride snarls, its voice rich and rumbling as it reaches for her again.

                Again, she dances away. Again, she grits her teeth and surges forward. She drops and slides along turned up concrete, rubble, grime and the slickness of rain, and she feels the demon’s whip over her head, the surge of its energy along her scalp.

                She is at her feet before the demon can grab at her, nimble and quick like her tongue. There is a moment where it turns, searching for her in the shadow of its great body, and she takes her chance without even really thinking. Her fists are around its great spikes before she even considers this non-plan, and she is clambering up the spines all along its great back.

                “You _dare_ ,” Pride snarls. “You think yourself _so great_! Pitiful human, you hold yourself so high, so mighty. I will drain you dry of every ounce of your imagined self-worth and I will grow greater _still_.”

                It reaches back for her and Hawke jumps from its back to the side of its arm. She does have a comeback prepared, but the demon throws its arm up and out, and the motion makes her stomach spin.

                She thinks for sure it has her, then—it drops the whip in its other hand to reach for her, grinning, and hanging on for dear life she has nowhere to go.

                But— _and this sounds crazy_ —there is a sound over her head that is somehow _louder_ than the chaos around them, a light that is brighter than her flames, than the crackle of power in the demon’s eyes.

                It forgets her for a moment. Its eye draws— _up_ , impossibly up, to the sky, its gaze following an adversary with somehow greater hubris than a lone mage clinging to its arm. Hawke scrambles, seeing her chance, somehow with her feet and hands and she is pulling herself up still further.

                Then she leaps and she is falling—airborne in a horrible, gut-wrenching moment of _oh shit what did I just do_ , where there is no sound around her but the demon’s crackling breath, the _roar_ of the helicopter overhead, and a distant sound that she realises somewhat belatedly is her own screaming.

                Pride’s eyes find hers, she screams, “ _Eat this_ ,” and as she lands on its face she plunges the fire-wreathed tornado of her fist into its open mouth.

                The demon screams—raw and throaty, without the arrogance it held only seconds before—and Hawke’s precarious position on its face becomes evident. Pride falls and she tumbles with it, the green-white light of its body filtering away into the cold night air.

                Hawke throws her barrier up, frantic, and after it bursts she rolls, catching herself on the ground with no harm done but a ringing in her ears from the loss of her shield. Someone— _someone_ , not _something_ —is at her side, and she takes their offered hand up without pausing to see who. They keep running while they drag her to her feet—and she has to stumble the rest of the way up on her own, because it’s Varric, Bianca slung over one shoulder.

                “That was amazing!” he crows.

                “I know!” she yells back, laughing—the alternative is to acknowledge that her hands are shaking. “Too bad no one else saw it!”

                The rift seems to pulse, bright and wary and glaring, and it flickers in and out. Hawke thinks for a moment that it will go out, that all this will have been for nothing, and her breath catches in her throat. But it burns brighter, hotter, and something seems to shift within it, something Hawke can’t quite identify. There’s a change in the light she can only describe as _reluctant—_ it’s still green, but it seems less sickly now and something warmer, more nostalgic.

                Then there is a pulse from the rift—and a feeling like coming home washes over her, protective and warm. The demons it passes over fade into nothing, and Hawke can immediately see their friends, faltering mid-strike or mid-spell, blinking wondering eyes at the emptiness of the area immediately around the rift.

                But Hawke can still hear the shriek of demons behind them—this is not over, yet, even if they are in no immediate danger of being attacked.

                Solas is standing at the rift, looking up at it with a pained expression that Hawke doesn’t quite understand. Beside him is Fenris—wavering in place, but _standing_. His skin is shining with rain and sweat, but there is a crooked, _relieved_ smile on his lips when his eyes find hers. Not easy, by any stretch, not without pain. But Fenris, alive and breathing heavily, the lyrium on his skin flickering out.

                “Quickly!” Solas calls as he turns, beckoning for them with a hand.

                There isn’t time—not even for _are you alright_ , not for anything but Fenris’ fingers twining in hers, something desperate in his expression—Solas steps into the rift and they are expected to follow while the spell remains. The others do, one by one, and Hawke makes a move to step forward—

                But Fenris holds her back, his grip on her hand tightening.

                She turns. There isn’t _time_ , she wants to say, and her lips are parted when Fenris kisses her.

                It’s _so quick_ —rough and wild, it’s less of a kiss and more of a frantic push of his lips against hers, his breath hot on her skin, and she barely has the time but she manages to push back, once, hard, and _there is no time_ but she finds a moment to forget any sensation but his skin on hers, her heart _leaping_ , her knees going weak with maddening, wild delight.

                Then he breaks it, panting.

                “For luck,” he breathes, _pleads_ , already dragging her to the rift.

                She opens her mouth—but the crackle of the rift is surrounding them, bright and warm, and when it surges over her she is aware of nothing but the pressure of Fenris’ hand on hers, gripping tighter still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished Trespasser and I'm _not okay_ in the best way possible.
> 
> Anyway you don't have to worry about Trespasser spoilers here, this fic will continue/end as planned without influence from the latest DLC.
> 
> ANYWAY part of the reason I was struggling so much with the last chapter is that I belatedly realised I hadn't given Fenris much of a say in what's happening. Pride is working with a seed of doubt Fenris hasn't really allowed himself to think too much on; what he does with it now that it's at the forefront of his mind remains to be seen.


	46. Wearing Your Face

Their surroundings are hazy at best, and Fenris squints but finds his eyes unable to focus in this world that is somehow absent and abundant of shadows. He feels like he’s caught _in between_ that half of a heartbeat where he’s slipping off a building in a dream and waking up in his bed, the whole body rush he feels _right_ before his leg jerks and he’s awake, panting.

                For a moment he panics, and he reaches out for _any_ sensation that is solid, unchanging. And he realises that his hand is already gripped around something— _warm_ , soft, strong. He tries to pull— _or is pulled_ —and his feet are on solid ground, one foot on slick marble tile and the other on soft, plush carpet. He looks down—finds that there _is_ a down, that he can _look_ anywhere at all—and sees his feet bare. Remembers that he lost his sandals at some point during the rush to the rift.

                Hawke is beside him, clutching his hand like a lifeline. His eyes follow the line their twined fingers make to her arm, to her shoulder, then to her upturned gaze. Her grey eyes are wide with wonder as she reaches with her other hand to shove the tight curls of her hair back. “Where are we?” she asks, her voice soft with wonder.

                Fenris glances up only to see an ornate ceiling—expensive, he knows, gold trimmings and shining bits of glass besides. Not old enough to be Tevene, but he has seen this ceiling’s meticulous copy in Kirkwall—not as gaudy. The curls of vines and Andraste’s face impressed into the sun are simplified in _La Fer_ , expensive besides but new.

“Halamshiral,” he tells her, looking across the room to find it populated entirely with spirits. “In the Fade.”

                Some imitate mortal creatures better than others, but he sees many that are more out of _time_ than place. Elves with and without _vallaslin_ appear as nobles, warriors, servants hurrying to fill pitchers, in clothes that are so varied from one another that Fenris can’t see any similarities between them. Those who emulate humans are dressed in fashions that are at least recognisable—he can look at them and find a timeline of sorts. If _old, older, oldest_ is anything to go by.

                Most of the spirits are... _less_ solid.

                They whirl and dance, in the air and on the floor. They are every colour at once, so bright and bold it’s impossible to look at them for long. Their figures twist with whims Fenris can’t guess at, baring too many teeth and curling too many limbs with too few fingers with their every movement. The colour of the carpet is never quite the same when he looks at it twice, the window dressings and the portraits on the walls shift with every surreal laugh that drifts through the thick fog of the air.

                There is something... _off_ about it. Not just the anachronism—something more than that. When he sees eyes they glint with something primal that sends a chill up his spine. Teeth are too long, nails are curled like claws, limbs are too thin or too large, grotesque, twisted. He finds himself caught between the instinct to grab his sword and fight them all and the instinct to bolt, so he clings to Hawke’s hand and remains frozen in place as he scans the crowd for a familiar face.

                He makes their friends out, one by one. They all look battered and bruised from the battle, but surprisingly whole. They are scattered throughout the room, and Fenris only catches glimpses of them as the spirits whirl and dance, soft sighs and dark laughter in the room rising to a cacophony loud enough to drown out any attempts to get their attention.

                Hawke seems to see something he doesn’t, and she starts to walk forward. She doesn’t let him go, and he follows after the tugging of her hand.

                The crowd parts around them, demons whispering in delight as they pass. Fenris feels his skin _crawling_ but Hawke doesn’t seem to notice. She pulls him forward, and even though he feels the spirits pressing ever closer, feels them in the air just above his skin with a burn of lyrium light and hears their nonsensical muttering, he follows her.

                “ _Marian_ ,” he hisses as she pulls him out the door to a balcony.

                Fenris hears a familiar voice—he blinks as they pass through, and the winter palace is gone. They stand among thick clusters of tall, tall trees, and when he looks up he can see the sun filtering through the canopy overhead as it begins to set. The air is hot, thick with humidity and the hum of insects, and he feels a sheen of sweat instantly appear on his skin.

                He hears the voice again, clearer now. “ _Emm’asha!_ ” she’s calling. “ _Da’len_!”

                They turn around, and there’s a Dalish woman in the trees, her back to them. She wears leathers that Fenris has only seen in books and on movie posters, a moss-coloured scarf. Her red hair falls over her shoulders and Fenris thinks he’s mistaken, but then he sees the black at the roots. _Aevalle_ , he thinks, and his lips part to call the name just as the woman raises her hands to her mouth again and calls, “ _Evanura!_ Where are you? _Elgar’nan_ , that girl will be the death of me.”

                The woman turns and she stops dead in her tracks when she sees them. Her features are almost the same as the woman who called him _lethallin_ and lied to him for two years—the hook of the nose in particular, the shape of her lips. But there are subtle differences—a scar that curls under her left eye, the way her brows furrow in confusion at the sight of them. The amber colour of her eyes, flicking over Hawke’s round ears, the sword strapped to Fenris’ back, the lyrium markings on his skin, where their hands are clasped tight.

                “Aevalle,” Hawke says, and she means a different person than Fenris was about to call out to.

                She frowns, and her nose does not wrinkle like Evanura’s does. Like Solas’. “How do you know my name, _shemlen_?” She looks at Fenris again, as if trying to decide something, but her expression is masked and Fenris can’t tell what she’s thinking.

                “Sorry,” Hawke says, and her hand clutches Fenris’ tighter. “I uh—someone asked us to come find you. We—we could use some help. I think we’re lost.”

                The woman’s hands hang loose at her sides. With a shift of her feet, Fenris sees the crackle of lightning at her fingertips.

                “ _Ir abelas_ ,” she says, her voice low but urgent. “But I—I’m looking for my daughter. You haven’t seen a little girl have you? I swear she came this way. She’s always running off. She’s—she’s six, her name’s Evanura. Black hair—have you seen her?”

                “Oh boy,” Hawke mutters. “Uh—I hate to break it to you, but she’s not six anymore.”

                “ _Hawke_ ,” Fenris hisses.

                The woman’s— _spirit’s?_ —eyes widen. “You’ve seen her?” she says, and Fenris almost believes the relief that passes over her features. “Please,” she says, “tell me where, it’s getting late and she’s always getting herself into trouble—”

                “This is ridiculous,” Fenris interrupts. “We need to find Solas.”

                The spirit goes very still, her eyes impossibly wide, her jaw impossibly tight.

                “We’re trying to find her too,” Hawke says, pointedly ignoring Fenris. “She’s in—pretty serious trouble, actually.”

                Fenris recognises the _look_ in the spirit’s eyes—he’s seen it in Evanura’s often enough, in the moment before a fight. She shifts her weight again, forward to the balls of her feet, and her elbows bend just slightly. Her eyes flick between Fenris and Hawke, staying longer on him. She’s decided he’s the bigger threat.

                Her lip curls as she asks, “Where is she?” and Fenris feels his sweat grow cold on the back of his neck.

                Then they hear the scream of a child, off in the distance.

                Fenris barely even _blinks_ , and the spirit is off like a shot through the trees, a flash of worn leather clothing and red hair. Hawke curses and before Fenris can say anything she’s following, and of course he’s being dragged along with her, their hands still locked in a vice grip.

                The trees are whipping by, the knots and whorls on the bark twisting. Fenris blinks and they look like faces—and then they are less like trees and more like demons, cackling just beyond the edge of hearing, a high pitched whine that makes Fenris stumble, clutching his head with his spare hand.

                Hawke stops so suddenly that Fenris almost barrels right over her as he tries to keep up. He catches himself, toes digging into soft earth.

                “Solas,” Hawke says, just as Fenris peers around her shoulder to see what’s stopped her.

                The dread wolf is raising a single brow at them. “There you are,” he says, as if they’ve lost each other in the supermarket and not the raw Fade.

                “Aevalle,” Hawke says, gesturing frantically behind Solas with her free hand. “She’s right there!”

                But Solas isn’t paying attention. He’s looking off to his left with a frown, and when Fenris wonders what’s the matter a girl in Dalish clothing runs between them, her dark hair and her laughter trailing behind her.

                “ _Isa’ma’lin_!” she cries in delight, holding something in her hands. “ _Isa’ma’lin!_ ”

                The girl slows to a stop, her features falling in confusion. She looks around herself, right through and past them. Fenris watches the shadows close in around her, sharp and twisting, and her grip on the thing in her hands loosens. A frog wiggles and leaps out of her grasp, but she doesn’t notice it. She stares blankly into the space just beside Solas, her eyes widening in fear.

                “ _Stop_ ,” Solas says, and although he tries to conceal it there is something absolutely wretched in his voice.

                The voice that comes next seems to come from the very air around them—Fenris and Hawke jerk and look about for its source, but there is only the suffocating press of the shadows drawing ever closer around them.

                “ _Did you ever tell her how close you were to rendering her world into ash, harellan?”_ The voice taunts, low and calculated. It seems to shift, to warp, and the more it speaks the less otherworldly it sounds—and the more it seems to him that Danarius is whispering in his ear.

                Solas doesn’t answer it. Hawke grips Fenris’ hand tighter.

                “ _All your plans, laid to waste by the woman you love. She’s wandered a century in terror, harellan. Looking for her lost child, when you’re the one who’s lost her._ ”

                Solas’s lip curls, and the air around him seems to crackle—not like lightning or fire, like _cold_ , a chill that freezes Fenris’ breath in the air in front of his face, even as sweat beads all over the skin on his back. He blinks and there is frost forming in the air, spreading as if across his car’s windshield on those rare days it is cold enough in Kirkwall to threaten snowfall.

                Then it seems like the very air around them shatters, and they stand in a bizarre, shifting landscape that Fenris can’t quite make any sense of. The sky in the distance is churning green and black, and there’s a city on the horizon— _upside down_ —silhouetted, towering over them.

                “It’s so close,” Hawke breathes.

                “There you are!” Comes a voice from above them. Fenris follows the sound and looks up, _up_ , and there—on a great flat expanse of stone above them in the sky—stands Merrill, waving frantically.

                “Come on down!” she calls, and Fenris’ mind barely has time to reconcile the thought _down_ with Merrill being _up_ before his feet are no longer touching the ground beneath him. Hawke _laughs_ , of all things, and they are tumbling through the air, still clinging to one another like children playing at games.

                Fenris has the presence of mind to turn himself mid-air, and he lands on his feet. Not easily, mind, but unharmed. Hawke stumbles, twisted in her attempts to follow his movements, and he has to steady her as she stumbles and falls, not quite having righted herself by the time the ground catches up to them.

                “Are you two kids done?” Varric teases. The Dwarf is approaching, his smile lop-sided, the corners of his eyes creasing with worry.

                Fenris looks around, even as Hawke sputters, and does not let go of her hand. He sees Dorian, peering at a floating piece of stone with raised brows while Bull stands nearby, muttering to himself. Isabela stands uneasily at Merrill’s side, knives in her hands and her eyes darting at the shadows shifting all around them. Anders— _not quite Anders_ —follows behind Varric, and Fenris recognises the glow of Justice in the abomination’s eyes. Without, strangely, all the rage of Vengeance.

                “Anders?” Hawke asks, warily.

                “He is safe,” Justice says, its voice low and booming in the vast expanse of the Fade around them. “He has not ventured the Fade since we merged, let alone in body. He would be distressed.”

                “It’s sweet that you worry,” Dorian quips without even looking up from the rock.

                “It would be unjust,” the spirit says, bristling.

                Hawke laughs. She squeezes Fenris’ hand and drops it.

                “Now that we are all here,” Solas says, somewhere over Fenris’ shoulder. Fenris turns, and the mage appears once again composed.

                One by one the others gather closer, in varying states of unease, and Dorian allows himself to be pulled away from his scrutiny of their surroundings.

                “Wherever here is,” Varric mutters. “So, what’s step two? Please tell me there’s a step two.”

                Fenris glances at Hawke. She does not quite meet his gaze, and Fenris knows without anyone saying it that there has always been a gaping hole in place of the steps between _enter the fade_ and _stop Evanura._

                He sighs. Perfect.

                “There,” Solas says, pointing, and they follow the line of his arm and hand up. The landscape, twisted and marred as it is, inclines upward, sharp and curling, and at the top there is a hole in the sky like a scar—crackling green, pulsing, burning. There are a set of rough stairs carved into the stone, as if daring them to climb.

                “If Nightmare plans to have the Venatori bring Evanura to him, then they will have needed to create a rift.” Solas drops his arm, but his gaze rests unflinching on the flicker of surreal light in the distance.

                Fenris wonders what else lies in wait at the top of the stairs, but before he can voice his worries Solas begins to climb, quickly, and Hawke falls in step behind him without hesitation.

                He follows without looking back, something heavy and unspoken in his mouth, in his chest.

                The climb is uneventful—the landscape is just shadowed enough to be menacing, just vague enough to set Fenris’ teeth on edge. The higher they climb the more irritated he becomes, the clammier the palms of his hands—the stronger the smell of rotten fish, making his stomach turn with disgust. He knows without asking that none of the others can smell it.

                Hawke walks before him, and he swallows his misgivings and follows her.

                Solas freezes in place when he reaches the top, and Fenris cannot see his expression but his shoulders are squared in a hard line, his back impossibly straight. Hawke, immediately after him, gasps aloud—something in between relief and trepidation.

                Fenris climbs up after her, and when he stands he is not sure what he is seeing.

                The ballroom again, Fenris wonders, recreated in the spirit of this place instead of in the Orlesian style. The sky above them swirls green and black, the sharp lines of the Black City looming on the horizon, the bright crackling of the rift just on the other side. So close, if not for the whirling of the demons— _and they are demon_ s,Fenris knows it in his gut. Their forms are twisted, too harsh or too soft, their expressions curling like smoke as they whirl, and their laughter when they spot the mortals standing just on the edge of their playground is a poor imitation of a _hyena_ , let alone anything that could speak.

                On the far end, on a dais of black stone raised above the whirling spirits, is a throne, twisted black and green and all sharp edges, and a lone figure lounges on it, legs thrown over one sharply curved arm of the throne in a display of carelessness.

                “Bluebird,” Varric breathes as he sees her, coming to stand beside Fenris.

                But Fenris—Fenris _knows_. There is nothing in the eyes of the elven figure lounging on the throne that belongs to the person at his side for the last two years of his life. Whatever lies she told him, he knows the curving wickedness of that smile _is not hers_ , and neither is the calculated sweep of her gaze over the mortals that have entered this domain.

                There is the smell of rotten fish, but it is not Fenris the Fear demon is trying to rattle by taking Evanura’s guise.

                “ _Savhalla, harellan_ ,” Nightmare says from Evanura’s lips with Evanura’s voice, looking directly at Solas.

                Behind Fenris, a strangled cry escapes Merrill’s throat.

                Solas recovers remarkably fast, although Fenris gets a glimpse of the absolute despair on his features before he schools them. “You do not have her,” he says, and Fenris does not imagine the hint of desperation that accompanies the words.

                Nightmare smirks, impossibly smug to have gotten under Solas’ skin so easily. “Not yet,” it purrs, a self-satisfaction so unlike Evanura that Fenris cannot reconcile the two. The features of the person on the throne warp, and for a split second Danarius lounges there instead, looking at Fenris with a gaze that means only one thing.

                Fenris blinks, and it is gone. Evanura sits on the throne once more. Upright, this time, leaning forward.

                “Shall I tell you her fears, _harellan_? She has so many years of them, wearing your face.”

                “Enough of this,” Fenris snarls when Solas balks at Nightmare’s words. He takes the sword from his back and steps forward. “We are passing through, demon, no matter what face you wear.”

                As one, the assembled demons turn and focus their gaze on Fenris. Some gnash and bare their teeth, and he has to grit his teeth against a renewed wave of _stink_ assaults him—blood, sea spray, the smell of fish gone rotten in the sun.

                “ _Fenris_ ,” Nightmare says, standing from its twisted throne with a wicked grin. “A stubborn little wolf, baring its teeth to make itself feel bigger. How does it feel to run from Danarius’ shackles, only to find yourself bound again? Will you ever be free, slave?”

                “Fenris isn’t a slave!” Hawke yells, stepping forward. Fire burning at her fingertips—for a moment, the _smell_ is gone and there is only baking bread, Hawke’s sweat.

                Nightmare tilts its head to the side. “You’re right, Hawke,” it croons. “Fenris doesn’t belong to anyone. Least of all you.”

                Something twists in Fenris’ chest—something _hard_ , something raw—and the fire in Hawke’s hands falters. She wavers, on the edge of his vision, something conflicting crossing over her eyes that are normally so sure. “That’s not,” she says, and doesn’t manage to say anything else.

                The sight of Hawke faltering— _Hawke_ , who is brash and loud and has faced the worst of Fenris’ tempers with a smirk and a joke—is enough to make Fenris’ blood boil. His lyrium ignites like a match has struck it, spreading from his core as if the air is fanning it, and Fenris bites back the bile that builds up in his throat at the smell that wafts through the air, the reek of one searing hot day on Seheron.

                Fenris lunges like a blur into the assembled spirits, and they surge like a wave to meet him.

                They dissipate into nothingness at the bite of his sword, only to reform at his back, cackling with glee. Fenris snarls and swings again, furious, but the result is the same. He hears Nightmare laughing—Evanura’s voice, twisted now, a low writhing thing that makes his skin crawl—and then the spirits shift their forms almost as one, from something vaguely human and into something slick and gleaming, with slippery limbs and a vagueness to their shape.

                He hears Solas shout—a spell, perhaps, something frantic in elven—and they slip away from Fenris, shrieking in terror and rage. Behind him, he thinks he hears Hawke, feels the heat of her flame, but then there is nothing but the slick of seafoam under his feet, the rush of the surf about his ankles as he rushes forward.

                One of the things comes at him again, and Fenris raises a fist burning with lyrium to meet it. For a moment he is standing on a Seheron beach, up to his thighs in blood and water, and the Fog Warrior who kissed him is standing there, gaping, as Fenris’ hand slides through his chest. The man looks up, puzzled, and suddenly it is Hawke whose heart he holds in his hand instead.

                She mouths his name and reaches for him, weakly.

                Fenris jerks his hands back, wide-eyed, as the breath rushes out of his lungs with panic. As the creature dies it ceases to be a person, becoming a twisting mass of slippery limbs rapidly deflating into an indistinguishable mass. Fenris steps back anyway, feeling water rushing about his waist now, and he’s stepping _backwards_ into the surf, pulled by the ocean and the horror that he sees on the shores.

                Danarius sitting on a throne made of driftwood, smiling with pleasure, and before him the Fog Warriors who saved him, reaching for him as they die.

                He blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision—but there now they’ve changed, and some of them are Hawke, Varric, Isabela, and then he blinks again and they’re something in between crabs and eels, slick with blood and crusted over with salt, then they’re the faces of the dead bodies in the corner of the room, slit throats to power Danarius’ ritual, their empty eyes among the oldest of his memories.

                There is the snarl of an animal at Fenris’ back, and the illusion shatters as a great white wolf leaps into the fray.

                Fenris blinks and the Fade is green and black around him once more. Solas scatters spirits with a snap of his great jaws, and they abandon all pretense at physical form as they flee.

                “ _Garas da’len!_ ” Solas snarls, the great wolf’s head sparing a glance over its shoulder at Fenris standing there, shaken.  Then he leaps forward again, snarling, and more of the wisps that stand between them and Nightmare scramble, panicking.

                Fenris charges after the great wolf without hesitating.

                The demon in Evanura’s form stands from its throne, features twisting with a dark glee.

                “You seek to challenge me, Dread Wolf?” it snarls.

                “ _Esaya’ar enasalin_ ,” Solas answers.

                Nightmare raises its head, and something changes in the air. The _smell_ is back, the heat in the air, and Fenris chokes on them both. The wisps that remain vanish, blinking out like so many little lights, and the ground beneath Fenris begins to shift under his feet. He looks down to see the solid stone become something like sand, like mud, slick with blood and surf.

                When he looks back up, the throne and Evanura are gone. In their place is something— _slick_ , shining, massive enough to make the dragon they fought months ago look like a pony. It stands on limbs that are crab-like, and Fenris cannot identify the mass that makes up its body but it is salt-crusted in places and slippery in others. He makes out barnacles and boils, and with the stench of rotting fish in the air is the copper tang of blood magic on his tongue.

                Fenris hesitates, craning his head _up_ to try and grasp the true size of the thing.

                Hawke breezes past him, fire in her palms, and she yells, “Keep up Fenris!” over her shoulder at him. “It’s just a spider!”

                He finds himself remembering her Elfroot-spurred confession in her bedroom. He smiles at the story she told, at the laughter that had bubbled up from him— _it took us an hour to order pizza, Hawke_.

                The sight of Hawke’s ass wiggling as she squeezed under her bed with a considerable lack of grace. _No one under here but me_.

                Fenris forces himself to think of hours spent prepping lobster bisque in the restaurant and he follows Hawke one more time, the others hot on his heels.

                This fight is not like the fight with the dragon. Hawke blasts flames at the demon’s legs, and Fenris follows behind her with his sword. Her flames pass over its hard flesh without effect, his sword bounces right off. Justice wields a sword made of spirit energy and throws himself at Nightmare, shouting something Fenris can’t hear.

                The ground is slick under Fenris’ feet, slippery with wetness like rain or blood, but Fenris thinks of Seheron—of fighting in the rain, of a Fog Warrior pulling him to his feet and showing him how to dance on ground soaked through and air that’s more water than anything else. When his feet slide, he moves with them—and yes, there is pain to those memories, there is the terror of what he used to be. But Hawke laughs beside him, and he thinks _Danarius found something he wants more than me_ , and that is a relief before it is anything else.

                Great twisting vines erupt from the ground under Nightmare’s legs, twining around them, and Fenris’ sword strikes a spot at a joint, where the armor is weak.

                What gushes out of Nightmare is black, powdery, dispersing into the air like a thick smog. The screech the creature makes is almost enough to cause Fenris to drop his sword and cover his ears, but Hawke somehow _whoops_ louder, brighter, and behind and beside him the others join her. All around Fenris is the sound of shouting, renewed vigour, and there is a bullet in one of Nightmare’s many eyes, lightning arcing along its indescribable torso, and Bull hacks the injured leg the rest of the way off with his greatsword.

                But Nightmare turns, and Solas shouts a warning.

                Fenris tenses, expecting Nightmare to go for him, or for Bull. The larger threats, the heavier hitters. But just as he brings his sword up to defend himself, a rush of water hits him, waist high, crashing like a wave of the ocean. He staggers back, blinking away visions of Seheron, looking around wildly for Nightmare, for a pointed limb to come grabbing for him. But he sees nothing, Nightmare’s great body focused elsewhere.

                Behind him, he hears a scream—and it’s too _close_ to be an illusion, too real. He turns into the crashing waves of the ocean at his back, turns into the sun that blinds him and the salt that stings his eyes.

                He turns in time to see Hawke fall under the crash of the waves, and Nightmare’s gangly legs reaching for her and catching only empty air.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Esaya’ar enasalin - I seek victory (compiled from project elvhen)
> 
> \--
> 
> Hey look at how not dead I am
> 
> Have some more elf angst and cliffhangers


	47. If He Thinks You're Lost

Fenris has Hawke by the hand, his wrist wrapped in a red bandanna, and he’s leading her through—somewhere. A wide, broad room, but the edges of her vision are hazy and she can’t quite make it out. A club? But it’s so empty. She’s aware of the heavy booming of bass vibrating against her skin, slowly, softly, as if from a great distance, and the lights switch between colours so slowly they remind her more of the aquarium in Highever—a family trip, years ago, Bethany sitting on her father’s shoulders and wondering at the sharks swimming overhead while her mother wipes ice cream off Carver’s face.

                But it’s just her and Fenris, now, and her skin is too hot, her breathing slow and heavy. Every movement she makes seems to stretch on forever, and when he glances back over his shoulder at her— _as if to see if she’s still following_ —her heartbeat against her chest is like a battering ram. Heavy, slow, forceful.

                He looks frightened. She squeezes his hand and smiles to reassure him.

                She’s not entirely sure how, but it’s like she blinks and they’re in a closet, Hawke’s back against a wall, and Fenris is using his bandanna to tie her hands to the rail above her head.

                “We’re safe here,” he mutters, and there’s something in his eyes that speaks of absolute terror. “No one can find us here.”

                “I like that,” Hawke says in a voice she hopes is reassuring. It comes out breathy and low, which she supposes is more seductive than comforting. She rolls her hips for good measure, in an attempt to grind against Fenris. He jerks his backwards, reflexively, but his hands come to rest on the curve of her waist, his thumbs slipping between her shirt and her skin.

                “Are you ready?” she breathes, _whines_ , squinting in the dark to get a better look at his expression. The only light is the flicker of his lyrium, spreading outwards from somewhere under his shirt, pouring through the threadbare black fabric. She remembers the feel of it against her skin, cold and hot at the same time, and she can taste it in the air with the musk of his sweat.

                She writhes against her restraints, wanting to touch him. Wanting him to touch her, but his hands are unmoving on her waist.

                “ _Please_ , Fenris,” she moans, and the only response she has is a muffled curse as he surges forward to claim her lips with his.

                _There_ he is, his lips hot against hers, his breath filling her lungs as it comes fast and hard between her parting lips. She bites his lower lip and he makes _that noise_ , that half-growl half-moan low in his throat, and Hawke needs him closer still, needs his body pressed against hers like she needs air, breath, life.

                The rail overhead _creaks_ as she pulls down on it, using it as leverage to lift her legs up and to wrap them around Fenris’ hips, pulling him closer. He curses again, or tries to, the words lost as his lips crash against hers, as his hands fumble to catch her legs, to dig his fingertips into her ass and to hold her there, close to him.

                He breaks the kiss—and she’s the one cursing, chasing him as he pulls away. But he kisses her neck, draws his teeth across the soft flesh there, bites and licks and lathes and Hawke _rolls_ her hips into his. The rail groans with her every movement, her wrists chafe at being tied a little too tight, and everywhere Hawke feels _too_ hot, _too_ sensitive, _too_ impatient. She clenches her legs to draw Fenris closer still, and even though there is no space between them it’s still not enough.

                He’s yanking at the hem of her shirt with his teeth, trying to pull it down lower so he can draw his lips along her collarbone, where she can feel her sweat collecting.

                “Why didn’t you take my clothes off _before_ you tied me up?” she says, a chiding laugh on the edge of each word.

                He is _panting_ , his breathing frantic and hurried, and when he bites her collarbone through her shirt she feels his jaw shaking, and she doesn’t think it’s with lust.

                “Fenris?” she asks. She is expecting a response of some kind, not for his hands to grip her _tighter_ , for his body to press somehow closer still. His hips roll against hers, and she moans to feel how hard he is through the combined layers of their jeans.

                “We’re safe here,” Fenris repeats, as if reassuring himself. “Please just— _stay here_ , with me. No one will find us.”

                Something cold runs all the way up Hawke’s spine. “You’re not Fenris,” she says.

                There is enough light that she can see his face twist. “No,” he answers.

                Hawke is suddenly all too aware of her hands bound above her head, the possessive grip Not-Fenris has on her ass.

                “Ah,” she manages, a different kind of flush climbing up her cheeks. “That—complicates things.”

                Not-Fenris doesn’t respond, instead resting his forehead on her shoulder. But he doesn’t let her go, and Hawke rolls her head back, trying to gather the scraps of her memory together and figure out exactly what she’s been doing.

                “Nightmare,” she says, and Not-Fenris tenses. “We were fighting Nightmare.”

                “Don’t say it,” he whispers into her shirt. “It will hear you.”

                Hawke swallows. She’s still too warm, the chill of sudden clarity aside, and Not-Fenris’ body pressed against hers is impossibly warm again, searing heat sending rolling waves of desire through her that are making clear thought difficult to achieve.

                Not-Fenris begins nibbling at her neck, as if reading her scattered thoughts. “It was going to take you,” he says against her skin, in between soft bites, in Fenris’ voice but not with words he would ever speak. “With spiders and visions of your mother in the alley, of Fenris falling to the knife over and over, of Evanura saying _take me instead_. Then you were falling into the pit again and I— _I can hide you_ , if it thinks you’re lost.”

                Hawke gasps under his ministrations, frowning as she tries to process what he’s saying. “The pit— _again_ —what do you—”

                She can see it, clear as day. Aevalle— _Evanura_ —crying over the corpse of a dragon, the ground giving way under them, her barrier snapping into place. Hearing her father shouting the name _Lavellan_ for the first time, when he’s been dead for years.

                _You blundered your way through a partial tear during your fall down here_ , Solas said to her.

                “You’re a spirit,” Hawke blurts, just as Not-Fenris starts with his tongue on her neck again.

                He hums his assent.

                “You’re—You’ve been showing me visions. Since I fell.”

                “Yes,” he murmurs, and he rewards her by biting down, _hard_.

                Hawke shouts, heat spiralling outward from his teeth on her neck, a rolling wave that blasts through her whole body and leaves her skin on _fire_. For a long, agonizing moment she is reduced to nothing but the sensation of his lips on that spot, kissing, sucking, his tongue lathing, and she tries to reach for all the reasons she can’t be doing this but _he’s close enough to Fenris, isn’t he?_

_Not me_ , Cole said, looking right at Hawke when Fenris called him a demon. Hawke feels a sudden urge to bash herself on the head for being so stupid.

                “What do you want?” she manages through clenched teeth. “To possess me? I thought you already did that.”

                Not-Fenris jerks up so quickly she gets a little dizzy just watching him. His eyes meet hers—green, wide, earnest—and his expression is one of absolute horror. “No!” he breathes, and there is another voice layered under Fenris’. Something higher, brighter. “No, I—I was trapped.” His expression twists, as if he’s trying to recall something difficult, and Hawke realises that his features are shifting as well. A hooked nose, vallaslin instead of lyrium. Amber eyes instead of green.

When the spirit speaks again, it’s with the voice of Evanura’s mother. “There was—she was hurting, and she needed—she _was_ and she needed _what I was_ , but I can’t remember what that is. The veil was so thin, I could slip right through. But then it was made strong again, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t—”

The spirit bows its head. Hawke watches as its features shift and become Fenris’ again.

“Then you came,” it says, Fenris’ voice low and rumbling in its chest. “And you were bright, and you felt like what I was, once. So I stayed, and I showed you what I found in the Fade.”

“That’s great,” Hawke says, yanking hard on her hands where they are bound. “Well it’s been a blast, having you in my head and making me hallucinate, but I really need to get back to everyone else now. We have a giant demon to kill, friend to save. All that business.”

The spirit buries its face in her neck and clutches her tighter. “No,” it says, in a small, frightened voice.

Hawke exhales. “Look,” she says, “you seem really nice.”

It nods into her neck like a child. “I am,” it says, “I promise, I am.”

“And I really am grateful you want to save me from—uh, _you know who_.” Hawke shifts her legs, trying to pull them out of the spirit’s arms, but it only tightens its grip. “But I have to get back to my friends.”

“To Fenris,” the spirit corrects her.

Hawke feels her cheeks grow warm again. “And everyone else,” she grumbles.

The spirit laughs, and it’s Fenris’ laugh, soft and low. It makes her heart beat a little faster, a little harder, and Hawke exhales, _slowly_ , to compensate.

“You don’t hear that enough,” the spirit says, Fenris’ voice slipping from its lips. A perfect imitation. “You could hear it all the time, here. Anytime you like.”

“Tempting,” Hawke admits. But then she has a thought, watching the way the spirit’s eyes gleam, and she says, “When Fenris showed up at my house the other night...”

The spirit tilts its head to the side, just slightly. “You needed a push,” it says, as if the matter is that simple.

She closes her eyes. “I was giving him space.”

“He doesn’t want space. He wants you.”

Hawke is _pretty sure_ that Fenris is a guy who needs space.

“When Fear had me by the neck,” she says, and her voice falters. “When—when it showed me—”

The spirit watches her face so closely that Hawke feels breathless just meeting its eyes.

“When it showed me all the things I’m afraid of...” Hawke bites her lip. “And you—I heard Fenris’ laugh. I saw Aveline getting married. I saw my friends.”

She can feel the spirit’s fingers digging in deeper. “Yes,” it says, low and breathy. “Yes.”

Hawke nods. “So, when—when I fought Fear back.”

“You needed me,” the spirit says. “Fear showed you the times you were alone. And I—I could show you when you weren’t.”

_Fenris laughing at her fear of spiders._

“You’re Love,” Hawke says, and that’s as close to a confession as she’s ever come.

The spirit’s eyes widen— _impossibly_ so—and there’s such an immense brightness in them that Hawke has to close her eyes and look away.

“Yes,” the spirit says, and its voice is not Fenris’ any longer.

Suddenly Hawke is lying down, and there is soft sand beneath her back. The sun is warm on her face, on her eyelids, and she breathes in the smell of the ocean, cedar sap, and she can hear waves crashing against the beach, feel the cool salt water on her toes, hear the wind stirring leaves, needles and branches far above her head. She hears laughter, the crackle of a campfire, and she can smell its smoke, the meat roasting in its coals.

She opens her eyes to a cloudless sky, gulls calling far above her. Hawke pulls herself up into a sitting position—and she sees her friends and family around the beach fire. Fenris is there, helping Evanura with the venison while Merrill guts fish downwind from them. Anders and Bethany are speaking, joking, laughing, and there’s Carver, Bull, and Varric swapping stories. Her father is there— _grinning_ —and he’s saying something to Merrill and Evanura that has them in stitches, but no one else understands a word of it. She sees Dorian lighting a cigarette only to have Isabela steal it from him, Cassandra berating them both for the bad habit. Aveline and Donnic walking up the beach a ways away, hand in hand.

“I understand now,” comes her mother’s voice from beside her. Hawke turns and sees Leandra’s face, her eyes shining with tears and _something else_ , something powerful and warm. “I remember.”

Love is wearing her mother’s face and smiling, and in this moment Hawke forgets every complicated thing that used to stand between them, in Leandra’s last days. Hawke smiles back without reservation, without pain.

Leandra stands and dusts the sand off her clothes. “I do not know what will happen,” she says, looking down the beach towards the fire, the laughing faces. “But we cannot leave them to Nightmare.”

Hawke stares up at the spirit with her heart in her throat.

Her mother turns back to Hawke, smiles, and offers her a hand up.

“Together, then?”

Hawke allows herself a moment longer—allows herself the wind in her hair, the sun on her skin. The sound of laughter, of happiness, drifting across the sand towards her.

“Together,” Hawke says, and she opens her eyes and takes the spirit’s hand.

 

Her _Nadas’lin_ awaits them in the same room she first met him—standing on the same balcony, back in his sentinel armour, his arms crossed and his hood up as he looks down at them.

                At _her_ , she corrects with a warmth in her heart that _pains_. He doesn’t spare a glance at the magister at her side.

                “You come here as a servant of Mythal who has failed in her duty,” he says in elven, and she hears the catch in his voice because she has known him for decades, has witnessed his worries and confessions through late nights of tangled limbs and gentle kisses. “And you bring a quickling into the heart of her temple. You have both walked the path of the petitioner, and I would hear your pleas for mercy before we proceed to Judgement.”

                She almost cannot bear to look at him. Once she thought him stoic, reserved—but now she _knows_ him _,_ knows how to read his very soul, and as she meets his stare she sees the _plea_ in his eyes, the pain in the way his fingers clench, just barely enough to be seen, how his shoulders are squared as he is barely holding himself together.

                But she has done this to him, and this is the smallest piece of Mythal’s Vengeance she will bear.

                “What is he saying?” Danarius hisses, and Evanura exhales.

                “He is asking us why we have come,” she tells him, shortly. To her _Nadas’lin_ , she answers in elven. “My actions have caused the death of two of Mythal’s chosen sentinels, the branding and torture of one of the People, and to the death of the Vessel for the All-Mother’s soul. I have spent the years since my transgressions running from them—I am unworthy of any mercy my Goddess has left in her heart, and seek only the Vengeance begged from those I have wronged.”

                Abelas’ eyes narrow, his jaw clenches.

                “This man tortured and killed two of Mythal’s chosen sentinels; he swore on the name of the All-Mother that he would do no harm to one of the People, and has broken that vow tenfold. He seeks what Mythal offers at the place of Vengeance. Those who follow us are his escort, to ensure we reached this place intact for her Judgement.”

                “What are _you_ saying?” Danarius demands, his voice growing louder.

                “I did not _ask_ you,” Abelas snaps in Trade, and his face twists into a sneer as he breaks from Evanura’s gaze _finally_ , to stare down the magister with a look of rage. “You seek Mythal’s blessing, _shemlen_? Then there are rituals you must undergo, eons of tradition that will not be ignored because you are _impatient_. If that is not to your liking, then you are free to _attempt_ to leave the way you came.”

                Danarius does not bat an eye, does not still in the face of Abelas’ rage. “Tell me what I must to in order to achieve what I have come here for,” he says, crossing his arms and tilting his head to the side. “I tire of this. I have walked your path—tell me where I must bow or who I must please and it will be done.”

                Abelas sizes up Danrius with a look that would be long-suffering if he wasn’t in such obvious _pain_.

                “Then you will leave your people here, where they will await your return. You will follow my people into the heart of this temple and we will instruct you further once you are _there_ , and you will do so without _speaking out of turn._ ”

                Danarius look at Evanura. She only raises an eyebrow at him in return.

                “And if I do not agree to your terms?”

                Abelas’ answer is quick and cutting. “We kill you where you stand like the filth you are.”

                There is a deliberate shifting in the shadows around the edges of the room, where the sunlight pouring in from above doesn’t quire reach. Evanura can count the sentinels in the shadows, trained herself in their methods of remaining undetected, but there are no elves in Danarius’ company, even if the sentinels were so easily detected. She knows the people Danarius brought cannot determine the exact numbers lingering in the shadows.

                Danarius works his jaw back and forth as his eyes dart about the room. “Fine,” he says. “I agree to your terms.”

                Danarius’ mercenaries adjust their weapons, suspiciously. They know that they will be at a distinct disadvantage without a mage to provide cover from the attacks of assailants they do not know how to fight.

Abelas gives Danarius one last, withering look, before he bows his head—in acquiescence, it appears, but there is a slight _turn_ to his head, and Evanura knows he has closed his eyes. “You have walked the path of the petitioner,” he says in elven, so softly, “and as Mythal’s chosen to lead her sentinels I will bear witness to her vengeance for breaking your vows.”

“ _Nadas’lin_ ,” she says.

He meets her gaze once again, a softness in his expression she cannot bear. She ducks her head.

“ _Da’sahlin_ ,” he whispers, once, and it’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you all thought I was done with the reveals!
> 
> I mean I'm pretty sure this is it now. I think.


	48. Before She Wanders Too Far

Fenris barely has time to register his heart dropping like a stone before Nightmare speaks again.

                “Oh?” The stretched out limbs that failed to catch Hawke now curl back in on themselves. “How remarkable. I hadn’t noticed her little _tagalong_.”

                Fenris _reacts_.

                He leaps forward with a snarl, with a cry of rage and pain that twists his throat as he lets it loose.  He moves for the spot Hawke vanished—he expects a pit, a pile of rubble, but there are only the waves that he moves through with a burn of lyrium, the sand under his bare feet.

                And the lyrium is burning, hot on his skin and crackling with energy sharp in the air of the raw Fade around him. He is intensely aware of every line that sprawls across his body, every mark carved into his flesh, and it _hurts_ but he focuses on that instead of anything else, instead of losing Hawke to an abyss and a monster all over again.

                The lyrium burns, and Fenris feels the waves the demon has made less with every surge, with every crash against his body. He does not give Nightmare a chance to recoil, to fall back in the face of his rage—Fenris takes the sword and swings, cleaving right through a joint in the long limb that had been reaching for Hawke. He knows it takes immense effort, and it dimly aware of some protest in the muscles that are straining in his shoulders, something in his arms and lower back that signals a hurt that means he’s gone too far. He does not care.

                Nightmare howls in pain and the limbs are reaching for Fenris. _Take me instead_ , he thinks, _if you can._

                Fenris does not stop. He hacks clean through the demon’s hard shell, and black smoke curls away into the air with every hit the creature takes. Fenris’ vision is singularly focused—he does not so much dodge Nightmare’s attempts to maim him as he shoves through them, sword in front of him, lyrium burning hot in his skin.

                For a moment, he is driving Nightmare back through sheer rage alone. But he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, a limb whole and hale with a barnacle-crusted claw reaching for him, and Fenris tries to ghost, shifts his stance to slip out of the way, to let the blow graze his now-incorporeal form.

                He hears a yell—a warning, high and frantic, but he does not have the frame of mind to figure out from who—and the arm moves _too fast_. Fenris takes a blow to his side, and _hard_. Hard enough to make the lyrium in his skin flicker and dim, to kick his body back into solidity. Fenris snarls in pain and falls—

                —and he is caught, held out of the water by something, _someone_ , warm and bright. He feels a chest shaking with laughter at his back, breath huffed into his hair, and her hands on his arm and shoulder breathe life into the lyrium again, into his own heart rattling against his ribs.

                “Hawke?” he breathes as she steadies him.

                He turns and she is— _otherwordly_ , in a way. Her eyes are too bright, too gleaming, but not like Pride in his dream. She smirks at his bewildered stare and her whole body seems alight, radiating with a warmth that makes Fenris’ heart beat faster in his chest.

                “Fenris,” she answers, teasing.

                “What—”

                She throws up her hand and a barrier rises between them and Nightmare—it does not so much snap into place as _ignite_ , crackling like flame and heat, and he watches another blow from the demon bounce off harmlessly.

                He thinks that when Nightmare touches the barrier, something changes in its flesh. It becomes softer, the limb becomes smaller. Just for a moment—half a heartbeat later, Nightmare has recoiled, curling its many limbs closer to the great mass of its body.

                “ _Love_ ,” it snarls, the disgust so evident in the demon’s tone that it’s almost a separate syllable.

                “Ready?” Hawke asks, and she’s not even looking at Nightmare—just Fenris.

                She doesn’t wait—for an answer or for the hundreds of questions sitting on Fenris’ tongue. She moves, wreathed in flame and laughter and light, and Fenris follows with a curse.

                Nightmare rounds on Hawke, on her fast and flitting movements—Solas calls something, a warning, and Hawke dances away as easily as a breath, drawing Nightmare’s weakened side towards Fenris. Fenris drives forward, and his sword easily cleaves an already weakened leg joint clean through. Out of the corner of his eye Fenris sees Solas—the mage, not the wolf—casting spells that petrify the demon’s legs, letting the others hack at them with weapons and assault it with magic. Nighmare snarls, the Fade warps around them, and then it leaps away, legs mobile again but wounded, black dust wafting into the air.

                Fenris follows Hawke, the sound of her laughter and the beacon of her flames. When Nightmare’s reaching limbs come too close, when its claws open and almost close around Hawke, Fenris is at her side with a blur of lyrium, his sword brought to drive down into the weak spot between two plates of sea-crusted exoskeleton.

                The demon’s shrieks of rage and pain are almost as loud as Hawke’s breath in his ear, the way it jerks against the sword embedded in its body is _almost_ stronger than Hawke’s delicate touch on his shoulder, her skin _warm_ through the fabric of his shirt. It’s the warmth that came with how she held his hands after he confessed the horror of Seheron to her, when he took hers after she started to cry on the floor under her bed.

                For a moment, he is somewhere else, _someone_ else. He is looking down at himself as a child, wide-eyed and unmarked by lyrium, and there is a warmth in his chest he doesn’t understand—and then Fenris watches himself walk through the door of the Dalish restaurant, and he can feel his numb, battered, beaten down heart lurch forward in his chest in horror, in rage, in self-loathing.

                It must only take a second, half a heartbeat, but Fenris not so much sees as _feels_ two years flash before his eyes—back to back in a car, shivering, throwing and breaking bottles in an empty lot, _say knife-ear to my face shem_ , and he watches himself look at Hawke, _truly_ look at her for the first time in that cramped booth in the Hanged Man, staring down at the way she licks her lips, and he _feels_ hope, that she hasn’t utterly ruined at least one small thing in her wretched life, feels an overwhelming sorrow whenever the glow of lyrium ignites the darkness, rage, crushing guilt—

                _“Asa’ma’lin,”_ Cole says, and Fenris is looking through her eyes as she stares down at her legs, sitting on her bed with the lights off in the dead of night.

                “I don’t want to die,” Evanura confesses, surprising herself, and Fenris can feel her choke on the words even as her hands clench in the sheets on either side of her.

                “Then don’t,” Cole says, simply.

                She shakes her head, forcibly, and she opens her mouth but the words won’t come out.

                Cole speaks for her, as he always does. “But if I die, he will be free. I owe him that least of all.” The bed dips as Cole sits beside her— _barely_ , as if the spirit’s physical weight is an afterthought. He takes her hair in his hands and begins to braid it, humming a soft Dalish song her mother used to sing.

                Sobs rise and fall in her throat without sound— _can’t scream they’ll find me_ , a childhood of being smothered awake to silence her unending night terrors—and as her spirit brother holds her Fenris feels everything, feels every beat of her wretched, ruined, healing heart, feels her sobs wracking her body and her attempts to contain them faltering, failing.

                Then Hawke pulls her hand away, and Fenris is back in the Fade, in his own body, and Nightmare yanks its claw away from Fenris’ sword.

                “I’ll distract it,” Hawke says in his ear.

                In the blink of an eye she is gone, leaping, laughing, whirling flames and a brightness that draws Nightmare away from the others again. She’s a beacon, burning, the only shining thing in this dark place, and the demon follows her, a dark and twisted thing so large that Fenris thinks it will blot out that light for sure. But there, as the demon moves between Hawke and the rest of them, there is her light pouring out around the creature, silhouetting its twisted, hulking mass, and her laugher carrying bright over its hissing breaths.

                Fenris _breathes_ , readies his sword, and he skirts the edge of the creature’s awareness, the edge of the light pouring from Hawke into the air. His steps are light and his gaze focused, determined, and even though the others advance and attack, round on the demon’s exposed limbs while it is distracted, Fenris circles and waits.

                Twice, Nightmare almost catches Hawke. She slips away both times with a laugh, as Solas petrifies the demon’s limbs and Bull crashes into them with a yell. Fenris sees the glaring red dot of Bianca’s sight scattering all over the demon’s body, taking shots at wounds or the suggestion of eyes, keeping the creature turning or deflecting its limbs away from Hawke. From the corner of his eye he can see great, ancient roots making their way along the ground, not reaching up to ensnare the thing just yet but laying a trap in the shadows cast by the demon’s great mass.

                He glances over at Merrill, her eyes catching the light coming off Hawke and reflecting it stark green, even narrowed in concentration as they are. She catches Fenris looking, seems to understand the question he doesn’t voice, and she nods once, firmly.

                Fenris lets the lyrium on his skin fall into silence, and he keeps his sword low as he slips into the shadow the monster casts.

                It’s half years of battle-hardened senses, knowing his chance, and half _something_ else, something like instinct, like the sensation of Nightmare’s awareness on him slipping away.

                He moves, with a burst of lyrium as it alights on his skin all at once—it builds with a sweeping crescendo as he darts forward, lyrium propelling him forward. The brighter it burns, the more _solid_ he feels, stronger and faster and so it’s with no hesitations, no sense of weariness that he closes the short distance between himself and the creature and leaps onto a curved limb, coiled, bearing the great demon’s weight as it shifts, trying to follow Hawke.

                It might have moved too fast even for Fenris to get a proper foothold, had countless ancient, Fade-weaved roots _not_ erupted from the ground at precisely the right moment.

                Fenris catches hold, gripping the barnacle-crusted leg _tighter_ , and as the light of the lyrium burns brighter, hotter, the demon’s form feels more solid. Fenris can feel it trying to shift underneath his palms—can feel the rage and confusion of a creature not used to an unchanging form suddenly forced into one underneath his palms—and he can hear the _crackle_ of Solas’ petrifying spell working its way up the demon’s gangly limbs.

               Fenris climbs faster still, using short bursts of lyrium to spur himself upward. He adjusts for the creature’s thrashing, its twisting in agony as his friends below resume their attacks with full force, as an unstoppable flame from Hawke rages at its front. Fenris hears their shouts, dimly, through a buzzing in his ears, through his heart beating hard against his ribs, through the high-pitched hum of the lyrium in his skin and the sound of Hawke’s laughter, bright and vivid and _real_.

                He stands on the demon’s back, and he makes his way to the creature’s head. It thrashes in place, trying to throw him—it _knows_ he is there, it _knows_ that his lyrium is enforcing its shape, keeping it from changing to get away, to trap him. But there are spells and weapons and shouts keeping it steady enough for Fenris to put one foot in front of the other, to run towards the creature’s twisted head.

                He can smell the reek of that day on Seheron as he makes the final step, half a leap to close the distance—he can feel the oppressive heat on his skin, slick with sweat and blood, and he can hear the crash of waves, the calls of bird circling far above his head.

                He thinks instead of the person who called him _lethallin_ , of how she was too terrified to sleep—and how this thing beneath him convinced her that her own father was stalking her dreams, threatening to take her away.

                All the energy built up by the lyrium in his skin bursts from him in a blinding flash just as his sword drives through the creature’s skull.

                It reels, screeching, and Fenris is almost completely swallowed up by the black smoke pouring from the wound. He pushes the sword in _deeper_ , ignoring the protest of his own abused body, and the creature beneath him thrashes under him, under the assault of the lyrium’s wave of energy. Fenris is dimly aware of the creature’s great limbs jerking, desperately, and the demon’s cries grow frantic, _higher_.

                _Don’t let him take me, lethallin_ , she’d begged, and he’d thought an apostate responsible for her terror.

                Fenris snarls and finds the strength to thrust the sword deeper still, and he feels Hawke’s barrier rush to life around him; it flickers around his skin like a caress, like a whisper.

                The thing beneath him rolls forward, and its body is collapsing into black dust. Hawke’s barrier burns hot around him, and Fenris does not stop attempting to drive the sword down to the hilt until there is nothing left to bury it in. All around him is a black haze, but it does not reach him—it curls around Hawke’s barrier, hissing where it collides, but the flames burn anything they touch, shielding Fenris from whatever terrors the demon throws at him as it dies.

                Fenris stumbles when his feet touch the ground—solid, unyielding. The dust that was Nightmare is blown away by a wind he cannot feel, and Hawke’s barrier slips away, leaving only the impression of warmth behind.

                He turns to the source of the light, and he sees Hawke, standing next to a non-distinct person who is gleaming, golden.

                “Fenris,” Hawke says, and she rushes towards him. She throws her arms around his neck and he finds his curling around her, instinctively. The spirit is watching them, and it takes a shape a little like Evanura’s—but there are wisps of colour about her translucent form, and he sees red hair, amber eyes.

                “ _Vhenan_ ,” the spirit says at it turns to Solas.

                He is stone-faced and still. “Love,” he says, and his voice catches. “I ask that you do not take that form.”

                The spirit shrugs and tosses its hair over its shoulder—Solas looks pained, as if the gesture is familiar.

                “She was here,” it says, idly. “Trapped by her spell in Nightmare’s realm. You could find her before she wanders too far, if you’re quick.” It smiles as it looks at him, something impossibly sad passing over its features. “But you can’t. There isn’t time to save them both.”

                “ _Please_ ,” Solas says, hands at his sides in white-knuckled fists.

                It laughs, low and melancholy, and Fenris wonders what it wants. But it obeys, and it shifts to mirror Hawke’s mother, instead.

                “You have to hurry,” the spirit says. “She’s almost there.”

                “What about you?” Hawke asks, turning in Fenris’ arms.

                The spirit hums, and tilts her head in a way that resembles Hawke’s mother too precisely. There is something warm in its eyes, and Fenris is surprised to find he has no instinctive distrust of this strange creature.

                “I’m needed,” it says, simply.

                Fenris blinks and the spirit is gone.

                “This way!” Merrill shouts, and there is no time to even absorb Nightmare’s demise, the spirit of Love’s interference and what it means. Merrill is running for the rift, Solas directly on her heels, magic being woven between his fingers as he runs. He sends a flare out from his fingers, and the rift _pulses_ when it makes contact.

                Hawke grabs Fenris by the arm, and they are running too. Everyone barrels through the rift with all the grace of a herd of druffalo.

 

If entering the Fade was like the moment before falling in a dream, leaving it is the moment of waking.

                Fenris’ feet hit the ground, and it feels like every bone in his body strains under an unseen weight. He stumbles—beside him, Hawke nearly hits the ground face first—and there is solid earth beneath his feet, soft grass springing up between stone tiles that are cracked, battered, but still shining under the dirt.

               It takes precious moments for him to adjust—to the air around him, to the light gleaming through the foliage above, to the _sound_ —but when he does, he immediately brings his sword up, one-handed, and tries to shield his face behind his arm.

                Hawke’s barrier flares up around them both before the bullets can make contact. It is not as great as the one she shared with Love, but there is still a feeling of fire and comfort about it.

                Fenris lunges forward and separates the mercenary’s head from his shoulders—a far easier feat than killing Nightmare—and spares a second to glance around the battlefield.

                They are before a great, wide bridge into some temple hidden by overgrowth. What might have been a serene sight is marred by blood on the ground, corpses of mercenaries in combat gear and Venatori in crisp suits littering the ground. There are still more, and Fenris tries to count them while they are relatively unnoticed.

                The rift to their back snaps to a close behind Bull, the last of their party to emerge, and the Venatori notice them _immediately_.

                “Get in there!” the Qunari shouts at Fenris and Hawke as he barrels past them. There is more, but the rest of it is a wordless battle cry, an enraged roar tearing from his throat as he raises his weapon high in the air, drawing the immediate attention of their warring opponents. A barrier with the crackle of Dorian’s electricity snaps into place around him before the first Mercenary raises his assault rifle and begins to fire.

                Bull is rapidly overtaken by Solas barrelling right past him, his wolf form a white snarling blur, and through the battle being waged in front of them. He doesn’t stop, not even as his Fade green barrier snaps into place, and his charge drives a path clean through the mercenaries and Venatori.

                “Come on!” Hawke yells, grabbing Fenris’ wrist as she passes him.

                They race through the scattered soldiers—to his left, Fenris sees Bull take advantage of the chaos Solas has spread, going in swinging. To his right, Isabela breaks off from Merrill to slit the throat of a Venatori about to cast a spell to slow them, even as Merrill keeps running. Mercenaries, vulnerable without protection from barriers, begin to fall to well-placed bullets between their eyeballs.

                “We’ll hold them off!” Dorian yells from somewhere behind them, and Fenris can’t control his flinch as a chain of lightning arcs through their enemies.

                Solas, Hawke, Fenris and Merrill are the only ones to reach the doors at the end of the bridge.

                They are thrown open with a burst of magic from the white wolf. Fenris and the others charge in after him, long agonizing moments behind, and they race through a courtyard with ancient statues and crawling vines, run directly across a maze of tiles that sing under their feet. They race past wolf statues, through flocks of birds that rest at overgrown reflecting pools, and every door that might bar their way swings open after an unseen command from Solas.

                Their surroundings are a blur of ancient mystery encroached by nature, crumbling walls and ages-old remnants of battles warred and lost. There is no trace of anything living or dead around them—and Fenris’ blood pounds in his ears, his hand clasps tighter around Hawke’s.

                Solas enters a room, and half a heartbeat later the silence is cut by screams of terror. When the others catch up to him, Solas stands in a ring of corpses— _Danarius’ mercenaries_ , not a Venatori in sight—blood dripping from his jaws and a magic that makes Fenris’ skin crawl _pouring_ from his eyes like liquid smoke.

                He is snarling in elven to a small gathering of elves in impossibly shining armour. They all have arrows trained on his face.

                Expecting a fight, Fenris ignites the lyrium in his skin.

                As one, the elves jerk their heads to stare at Fenris. The pupils of their eyes reflect the light back at him bright green, and Hawke curses softly at the sight.

                “ _Mana_ ,” Merill blurts, her voice pleading. “ _Ma halani._ ”

                Solas says growls something, quickly, through a snapping jaw and the gathered elves share a look with one another before one of them steps forward.

                “Quickly,” she says, in thick-accented Trade, “you can still stop her.”

                Solas takes off again, somehow faster still, and it’s all the others can do to follow.

                The white wolf leads them through the bowels of the temple, around twisting corners and past glittering mosaics. Their surroundings are dark, and strange statues tower over them, their features elven but twisted into something _darker_.

                At last they stumble into what Fenris thinks initially is a garden—but he sees that the roof has caved in instead, opening a broad corridor to the elements pouring in from above.

                On the far side, standing with his back to them, head bowed and hands clenched into fists, is Abelas. His hood is down, his pale braid swaying in the gentle wind, earrings gleaming in the sunlight. Cole stands beside him, and turns to face them as they stand there, gaping.

                The only sound is the ancient elf’s breathing—wretched, beaten.

                “You are too late,” Abelas says, accusing, without turning.

                Beside Fenris, a _noise_ escapes Merrill’s throat. It is probably supposed to be a denial, or an exclamation of pain, but Fenris does not register it.

                He drops Hawke’s hand and surges forward, a burst of lyrium helping him span the distance in half a heartbeat. He slams his hands against the door—something magic crackles at his touch, ancient and strange. He feels goosebumps run all up and down his flesh as it courses over his skin, leaving a numbness behind he can feel in his teeth.

                Fenris staggers a step back, forcing great gasps of air into his lungs.

                Behind him, he is dimly aware of Merrill’s frantic pleading—and it’s rapidly degrading from nonsense elven into wordless sobs, even as Hawke tries to hush her with a voice that’s breaking.

                Cole makes no move to comfort Merrill. Instead, his pale gaze rests with singular focus on Fenris.

                “You let her do this,” Fenris says.

                Cole doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”

                Fenris can barely hear the spirit’s words over Merrill’s tortured sobs. There is not a sound at all from Solas, and that enrages Fenris enough to turn.

                “Can’t you open this?” he snarls.

                Solas stands as himself, his expression impossibly blank.

                “No,” he says, simply, so softly Fenris can barely hear it over Merrill’s keening. The look in Solas’ eyes is one of such loss that it just makes Fenris _angier._

                “You’re supposed to be a _god_.” Fenris hears himself yelling, feels the strain on his throat as if from far away. “You brought us through an army of demons, through the Fade to get here, and you are stopped by a door? You are supposed to be greater than this!”

                “Not this,” is Solas’ only answer, his voice breaking.

                Fenris snarls again and whirls on the door. He raises his fists, and the lyrium _burns_ in them as he slams them against the heavy stone, harder, trying to force his way through. It does not give, so he hits it again, _again_ , and whatever spell bars his passage rolls over his skin, vibrating all along his lyrium markings until they are blinding white in his own vision.

                Hawke is calling his name. He ignores her.

                “I don’t want this!” he shouts, _pleading_ , and he continues his barrage. “I didn’t ask for this!”

                His voice breaks.

 _Something_ gives, in his chest, his heart until now hard and unrelenting, and his hands slip through the door.

                Fenris’ eyes snap up, to where he is wrist-deep in the ancient door. Different than reaching through a man’s chest—not as if he is forcing his way through, but rather the solid world has _relented_ , allowed him through.

                “Hot sand on Seheron, your hand holding a heart, beating, bearing bad tempers and terrors made of lightning and a lie of love,” Cole says, urgently. “It keeps nothing kind—you can. You _must_.”

                “Fenris,” he can hear Hawke say. “Don’t you dare.”

                Fenris takes a breath.

                Hawke screams his name as Fenris steps _through_ the closed doors.


	49. Help Wanted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some discussion/pretty aggressive hints of how Danarius treated Fenris. I can provide a 'clean' version on my tumblr upon request.

Fenris is standing in Danarius’ library, just over his shoulder.

                It’s a jarring feeling—he remembers so precisely the musk of the old books, the hum of the laptop on the desk. He remembers the feel of the wood floor under his feet, and he’s standing on that _one_ slat that tends to splinter. Danarius, who always wore shoes in his own home, never noticed it, but he noticed the blood that his slaves left on the carpet if they forgot to avoid it.

                Danarius, for his part, is standing by the window, a glass of wine perched in his fingertips. _Aggregio_ —Fenris knows the smell and the colour of that, knows the way the light catches it and turns it ruby, glittering. Clear-bodied, orange notes in the nose, oak and cinnamon on the tongue. Few if any legs form when swirled—a dry, dry wine.

                The slave who has poured Danarius and the man before him a glass each bows and retreats, brushing past Fenris without so much as a glance to hover at a relatively safe distance. Fenris has never seen this man before—human, _soporati_ by dress and the gun holstered on his belt. He wears the badge of the captain of Danarius’ guard, wears the magister’s colours in muted shades, in spite of his strangeness to Fenris.

                “The elf boy has lasted longer than I thought,” Danarius is saying, frowning out the window.

                “Ah,” the captain says, shifting his weight. “He—he’s surprised us all, really.”

                Fenris finds himself studying Danarius’ face closely, the quirked brow and the slight turn of his head at the words. “How so?”

                Impossible to discern for most, but even after years away from Danarius, Fenris still knows how to read even the most subtle of his ticks. The magister is annoyed for even having to ask the question—for having to press on this novelty in the first place.

                “He shows aptitude,” the captain continues. “Great skill at reading an opponent. At first he simply outmaneuvered them, but since—since his increased training and food allowance, he’s been able to overpower nearly all of my men.”

                Danarius looks out to the yard again. Fenris knows this isn’t truly a dream, but he finds himself bold enough to step forward, to approach the window at a better angle so he can see what Danarius is looking at.

                Outside is the practice yard Fenris is still familiar with—he sees the same dummies set up, the same simple wooden benches along the perimeter. The wall, stone and tall enough to bar passage, where Danarius’ men patrol with assault rifles.

                In the center of the yard itself, a pit of searing hot sand, Fenris sees himself unmarked.

                Leto—Fenris cannot see himself as that person, even now—is in unarmed combat with a Vashoth slave twice his size. There is nothing elegant about the fight—Fenris instantly finds numerous flaws in Leto’s form, notes the exhaustion in his limbs, the way his hands tremble even has he keeps them up to protect his face. Leto ducks and weaves, silver hair plastered to his head with sweat and sunlight, and he uses his nimble form to its full advantage. He keeps the big Vashoth man moving, turning, keeps slipping out of range of his arms, ducking under or weaving around blows.

                When Leto makes his move, he is quick and efficient. He allows the Vashoth to charge, and then he uses his smaller frame, the Vashoth’s high center of gravity against him. Fenris sees the arm across the torso a second before Leto ducks low and flips his opponent onto his back, using his own momentum against him.

                The Vashoth hits the dirt. Some of the spectators cheer. Leto stands, a little uneasily, and offers a hand and an easy smile to his fallen opponent.

                “How is he ranking?” Danarius asks, and Fenris tears his gaze away from the person he used to be.

                “He is the top candidate, my lord,” the captain says. There is a reluctance there that is poorly hidden—Fenris knows Danarius hears it, because there’s a downward twitch to the left corner of his lips.

                “Fascinating,” Danarius says instead.

                Fenris blinks, and a fog comes over him. He thinks he hears someone speaking—a woman, her voice low and laced with a barely contained rage. He can _almost_ understand what she’s saying, maybe if he just listens a little harder—

                But then he is standing just over Danarius’ shoulder again, except they are in a sterile room with impossibly bright lights, white walls. There is a slave being thrown onto a pile of bodies, throat slit, and Fenris sees Leto strapped to a table while Danarius uses a small, thin blade and a tool a little like a pen full of liquid lyrium to mark the boy’s flesh.

                Leto is paralyzed—by magic, for Fenris can see his eyes rolling wildly in his head.

              “Keep him awake,” Danarius snarls at his assistant. “He will die otherwise, and this will all have been an utter waste.”

                Danarius is filling in long, curving gashes cut into Leto’s neck, and the boy cannot even close his eyes to hide from the pain. His face is a mess, blood leaking out from three dots marked into the center of his forehead, into his eyes, his nose, and it keeps pouring out, no matter how much the assistant wipes it away.

                Next, Fenris watches himself be brought before Danarius—and he can _see_ the fear in his own eyes, the unsteadiness of a body with something _wrong_ forced into it, made to coexist with living flesh. He watches himself bow, uneasily, wincing at the pain as the lyrium on his knees hits the floor through his clothing. Everywhere there are markings exposed to the air, they are raw at the places where his skin meets them. Some are infected, pussing, the body attempting to reject this strange substance.

                Danarius sees the pus immediately, at Fenris’ knuckles and up his arms. He flies into a rage.

                “Do not let him ruin them now!” he snarls, and Fenris watches himself flinch, cower instinctively. The lyrium reacts to Fenris' fear, sporadic flickering all up and down his body, and then the younger Fenris is doubled over in pain, screaming.

                “Chain him to his bed if you have to,” Danarius orders. “He is worth more than this entire miserable household. Keep him from spoiling my work.”

                The next time Fenris stands before Danarius, he has healed. The lyrium and his skin have reached an uneasy truce—still red and tender, but they are unhappy bedfellows now, begrudging but not warring with one another.

                When Fenris drops to one knee, he does so without even a flinch of pain.

                Danarius runs his hand through Fenris’ short, soft hair.

                “My little wolf,” he says, with something that could never be mistaken for anything but possessiveness.

                “Master,” Fenris watches himself answer.

                “Strip him,” Danarius says to the other slaves. “I would like to see the fruits of my labour.”

                It goes on. Fenris watches himself pull hearts from men’s chests and present them to Danarius while his master leers in approval. He watches himself being punished for his mistakes—all Danarius has to do is lift a finger, and the lyrium reacts to his magic. Fenris of old bears the unspeakable pain as well as he remembers—he does not scream, not once.

                Then they are standing in Danarius’ bedroom, and Fenris is waiting for the magister to dismiss him for the day.

                “Little wolf,” Danarius says, as he does only when they are alone. “Undress me.”

                Fenris watches his own face, looking for a reaction. There is none—this command is not unusual, not unheard of.

                But Fenris only manages to take off the jacket, and as he loosens the tie Danarius’ hands come up to catch his.

                There—there Fenris sees his own mask crack. A slight intake of breath, his pupils shooting _wide_ , reflecting the low light in the room.

                “How you dote on me, my little wolf,” Danarius says. His voice is low, and laced with something that the Fenris across the room has heard before, and has scared him every time.

                Danarius brings his hand up to Fenris’ face. But he doesn’t cup it gently—he grasps it, pressing his thumb down _hard_ on the curl of lyrium just below the slave’s lips.

                “How you _love me_ ,” Danarius says, and that dark thing in his voice has reached his eyes.

                “Yes, master,” Fenris the slave whispers, his eyes wide with terror.

                Fenris _snarls_ , wordless and raw deep in his throat, even as his stomach turns and he fights off the urge to vomit. He turns away, closing his eyes and covering his ears. He doesn’t need to see this, doesn’t want—

                There are more scenes, played somewhere behind him. Fenris does not watch them, presses his hands to his ears and focuses on the ricochet of his heart beating against his ribs, his pulse rattling around in his skull, so he cannot hear.

                And then there is the heat, the suffocating heat, the smell of the ocean and the smell of blood and fire.

                Fenris is standing on a ship, just over Danarius’ shoulder. The magister’s body is all stiff lines, fists clenched in fury, and as Fenris looks on, he can see himself standing on the docks, swallowed up by the crowd of people who failed to reach the ship in time.

                Danarius speaks no words, and Fenris does not need to read the magister’s emotions from his face.

                Fenris tries to steel himself for what is coming next, but _watching_ is somehow worse than experiencing it all over again.

                He watches the Fog Warriors kill Danarius’ hired men, watches himself stand there, still as a stone, his eyes wide as the carnage unfolds around him. Danarius brought few with him—Fenris finds that his memory is imperfect in this. He remembers far more enemies, a far greater struggle. But the Fog Warriors only have to deal with a handful of men, who are unused to fighting in thick waves of alchemical smoke.

                It still takes time—not much, but the boats they have brought to shore full of their morning’s catch have been left long enough that their contents have begun to spoil. Fenris can smell it in the air, subtle as it is, and it makes his stomach turn.

                Danarius himself is wounded, and they turn to Fenris, all victory cries and raised fists. This great magister, presented to Fenris like a captured prize.

                Fenris looks at the illusion of himself, then, and he says, “No.”

                But Danarius’ little wolf can only stare at his master’s face with an expression of immense sorrow.

                Danarius mistakes it for loyalty, and grins. “Kill them all, my pet,” he says.

                “No!” Fenris yells, but no one hears him. To his own ears his voice is warped, as if there is a pane of glass separating him from the scene unfolding before him.

                The first one doesn’t even fight back. The second recoils, shocked, but his old self is too fast for them.

                Fenris reels, bile rising in his throat. This, he cannot look away from—he sees all over again the betrayal clear on the Fog Warriors’ faces, their rage, their terror as he tears them down, one by one.

                “I never agreed to your trial!” he snarls to the being he knows is causing this. “I swore you no oath!”

                There is an impression of someone speaking—that voice again. He hears her words like a second heartbeat, somewhere below the surface of his skin. _I must bear witness before Vengeance is granted._

                Danarius watches the whole thing with a smirk on his face. He stands once Fenris has freed him from the Fog Warriors who held him, and he does not lift a finger to aid or halt Fenris’ relentless pursuit of his victims.

                This wholesale slaughter, now _this_ takes time. The sun has climbed, peaked and begun to drift back down again by the time Fenris kills the last of the Fog Warriors. The heat of the day is so severe that all of the fish is spoiled now—putrid and foul, it mingles with the blood, the acid remnants of the alchemical fog on the ground, the sting of salt water on the back of his throat.

                When the last Fog Warrior falls, Fenris looks at his younger self and is surprised to see tears streaming down his face.

                Fenris doesn’t remember crying—doesn’t remember anything but emptiness, resignation, a mind-numbing shock that would not relent for months, perhaps years. But there he stands, his face raw with sunlight, ocean spray and glistening with tears, his back turned to the man who has ordered this thing of him, who has shown up again and utterly destroyed all pretense at a normal life.

                “Now Fenris,” Danarius says—which is strange, because Fenris doesn’t remember that either, only the pounding of blood in his ears, the calls of birds circling high above. “My little wolf. Let’s go home.”

                The Fenris who is covered in the blood of those who tried to be his friends does not move, does not even flinch. Not even when Danarius calls for him again, frowning.

                The third time is what startles Fenris out of whatever shock he’s fallen into—that third call of his name is what makes Fenris turn and run.

                It is not a graceful escape. He trips over those he’s just killed, and real panic dominates his features with every faltered step. He scrambles over corpses and around fallen weapons, and Danarius screams his name long after Fenris has fled into the trees and out of sight.

                Fenris does remember vomiting in the treeline. He still has the frame of mind to be glad Danarius doesn’t seem to have witnessed it.

                “Haven’t you seen _enough_?” he snarls, his own voice exhausted and raw, and then the scene fades to black. Only Danarius remains, looking around in confusion.

                “This is not what I was promised,” the magister shouts, and he takes a few staggering steps around, shielding his eyes as if from some light Fenris cannot see. “I was promised immortality! Power!”

                The voice answers him. _You swore an oath to Mythal, and you have broken it in every conceivable way._

                “What?” Danarius squints around his arm. “Girl, what is she saying? Translate!”

                _I have witnessed your testimony and I have heard the cries of your victims for Vengeance._

                “What must I do now? Tell me!”

                _Vengeance_ , the voice says, and the word rings so low and so powerful Fenris can feel his bones vibrate _, will be granted._

Danarius doubles over and _screams_.

                The scream rapidly becomes inhuman—Fenris can see the magister clutching at his fine clothing, dirtied from the trek here, as his body twists and writhes underneath it. Fenris watches as Danarius’ bones warp, stretching his skin and curving his limbs into impossible angles before they shatter, mend themselves, then shatter again. Blood winds its way over Danarius’ skin, seeping through his clothing, and Fenris recognises them as an imitation of the lyrium carved into his own flesh—but they glow with a red, red light that reeks of illness and corruption.

                Fenris smells burning flesh. He watches Danarius’ torment until the magister is little more than a broken shrivel of flesh on the ground, until the screaming dies to a whimper, then a single, rasping breath that is followed only by silence.

                He has to remind himself to breathe, there is such a weight on his chest. “Aevalle?” he calls. “Evanura?”

                _Which is it?_

                Fenris balks at the question. “Does it matter?”

                _Yes._

“Show me where she is.”

                _You would witness her Vengeance as well?_

                Fenris curses. “I never asked for that.”

                But the darkness around him springs to light anyway—and he’s in a room, bright and shining, watching Leto being carried away over the back of a guard.

                He is standing just beside Evanura, lying on the table—she is chained there, her hand with the Anchor cut open and flayed apart down to the bones and ligaments there, where something strange and green and pulsing lies. Fenris’ stomach turns at the sight, at the smell of the magic keeping it from beginning to rot. Blood magic—fuelled by her own, he thinks, for there are no dead slaves littering the floor like waste.

                “Tell me,” Danarius says, leaning in closer. Fenris knows there is a camera in this room that will record her every word.

                “You’ll hold her accountable for secrets she gave away under torture?” Fenris says, not listening to Evanura explaining what she knows of the ritual. His voice comes out in the strange muffled quality as before, and he knows she cannot hear him.

                _She swore an oath_ , the voice answers simply.

                “ _Vishante kaffas_ ,” Fenris says, softly. He is looking at the guilt written all over Evanura’s face.

                Then Fenris leans against a wall in the old ruin Hawke and Merrill brought him to. Evanura is crouched in the shadows, a hand to her mouth as she watches the Dread Wolf kill Mythal and steal her soul.

                “And this was not her doing,” Fenris says, simply.

                _Her oath was to stand as Mythal’s sentinel, to protect her and what she left behind for the ages to come. She failed in her duty._

                He takes one look down at Evanura, weak and barely awake, and he knows that she could not have stopped Solas if she tried.

                The rest, Fenris knows. His life is once again the subject of this scrap of Mythal’s scrutiny, and he mostly finds himself watching from afar, listening with boiling blood to Evanura’s evasiveness, to her half-truths.

                _She lied to you_ , the voice says.

                “Unless she swore an oath to Mythal to never tell one specific elf any lies, then I don’t see why we have a problem.”

                _She evaded Vengeance. She knew her fate and would not come meet it_.

                “Possibly because this is mind-numbing and tedious,” Fenris grumbles.

                He watches through his car window as they lie with their backs to each other. Fenris watches the lightning in the sky, and Evanura stares at her hand.

                “Nineteen,” he tells her. “I think.”

                “ _Ir abelas_ , Fenris.”

                “You’re not Danarius,” is his answer, and Fenris understands the irony now. From where he stands, he can see the pain and regret crossing Evanura’s features.

               He watches a hundred such near-confessions. He bears witness to every false start, every hesitation in her manner. Every time she looks at him and opens her mouth, only to shake her head and look away, grief all over her features. She hums the song she learned from Varania in his childhood, and sometimes she drinks herself into a stupor.

                He witnesses those, too. Dragging her away from Sera’s apartment building, taking her phone away from her. Taking her to an abandoned lot with all the empty wine bottles they stole after work, and they throw them against half-built walls, rusted support beams.

               Fenris joins her in getting drunk only once—after that, it is clear to him she cannot be left unsupervised in her state. After the fourth time he holds her hair as she vomits into a garbage can, he forbids the practice altogether.

                He sees himself sitting on his mattress. “Tell me to leave,” he pleads, begs.

                “No,” she answers. Not forbidding him to go—just refusing to make it anything but his choice.

                Then he is watching himself bleed out on the floor, and Evanura giving herself up to Danarius for him.

                _She chained you to her_ , the voice says, _as surely as Danarius._

               Fenris finds himself frowning. When Pride said the same thing, Fenris had agreed. But he thinks of the spirit of Love, and the moment that he witnessed during the fight with Nightmare.

                “No,” he tells the voice, but he doesn’t quite know how to explain it.

                _Truly?_

                The world whirls around him, and Fenris sees himself standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. He flinches at the sight of himself—rail thin and sunken eyes, something desperate written on every inch of his body. Not even bothering to hide the lyrium anymore—let Danarius find him. It’s the height of summer, and too hot for a sweater.

                He’s staring at a sign in the window.

                “It says Help Wanted.”

                Both Fenrises turn towards the source of the voice—the one in memory slowly, sluggish with hunger and exhaustion, and the one in person with wide-eyed alertness, _knowing_ before he sees who the voice belongs to.

                Cole stands there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his washed out hoodie, his too-pale eyes searching Fenris’ for something.

                Memory Fenris recovers. “I know,” he lies, his voice thick, some remembered fight response beginning to kick in.

                Real Fenris gapes openly. “I don’t remember this,” he says.

                “You do now.” Cole hums, thoughtfully, before tilting his head and rocking forward on the balls of his feet. “ _Asa’ma’lin_ is in there.”

                “Who?”

                “She needs help, but—she doesn’t want to see me ever again. Told me so, in the place the truth came tumbling out. Not the _right_ truth, but some of it.”

                The Fenris of memory looks at the sign. “I don’t think that’s the kind of help they mean,” he says, brows furrowing.

                “It’s the kind she needs,” Cole says, urgently, “the kind _you_ need. You could make each other better, take all the battered parts and make them— _less_. Not whole, but stronger than before.”

                Fenris watches himself nod, slowly, then turn away to glance down the street at some noise—a cat chasing a rat into an alley. When he turns again, Cole is gone. Fenris watches as the confusion slowly leaves his own eyes, as he forgets everything but the sign reading _Help Wanted_ , and opens the door to the Dalish restaurant.

                “That doesn’t count,” Fenris says with a rough voice. “Cole never—she never asked him to do that.”

                _But he did it for her,_ the voice says, _like the Dread Wolf killed Mythal for her_.

                “One is a spirit of Compassion,” Fenris says, “and the other is her _father_.”

                _She hurt you. Lied to you. Kept your secret for a chance at redemption._

                “I don’t _care_!” Fenris snarls, feeling the lyrium in his skin ignite in his rage.

                The light spreading from him casts the vision around him into smoke, and the Dalish restaurant disappears—as if whatever is controlling it is recoiling from him. He can make out a room of some kind, sunlight dancing through a hole in the ceiling. Soft moss under his feet, a statue ahead of him. Lying at its base—

                “Aevalle!”

                The memories try to close in around him again, but Fenris leaps forward with a burst of his lyrium. He keeps it burning as he kneels beside her, feeling the rage of whatever presence is in this place howling at being denied its victim. He gathers her up in his arms and shakes her, but her eyes do not open.

                She’s so still. He’s shaking so badly he can’t even tell if she’s breathing.

                “Aevalle,” he tries again, his voice rising. “Evanura, _please_. Wake up.”

                He hears the presence _screaming_ , thrashing against the shield his circle of light is providing them. _Guard dog_ , it calls him _, slave, you would choose to bend the knee before you would stand for yourself?_

                He closes his eyes and holds Evanura close, buries his face in her hair to shut the remnant out. He can’t keep this up forever, and he wishes he had _anyone_ with him—Hawke and her clever tongue, Merrill to say the most impossibly kind thing and make this creature change its mind, even Solas or Abelas to know the proper way to appeal, the spirit of Love to show Mythal’s remnant what it showed Fenris, or Cole to read the right way to help without a word being spoken.

                _It keeps nothing kind. You can—you must._

Some advice, Fenris thinks with a scoff. Fenris has been everything but kind—maybe Leto was, once, but Fenris is all rough edges and an unending rage.

                But he is exhausted, and even the lyrium is beginning to fail him. He can feel the numbness in his fingers that means he’s almost run out—after demons and Nightmare and the dash through the temple, he can feel a weariness in his limbs that goes with _running_ , endless running, without stopping to see where his feet have been taking him.

                Time is running out, and Fenris is the only one here.

                “You asked me once,” he says, low and rough, “ _when can we stop running?_ ”

                He chokes on the question. He can _feel_ the remnant pressing closer, and his skin itches at the feeling of the lyrium running out of power. He clutches Evanura tighter still, and does not look up.

                “You always fight when I fight. You always run when I run. I should have known you would stop when I did. I should have— _seen_ this, somehow. Listened to you, all the times you tried to tell me.”

                His bones are _humming_ , the remnant’s mindless shrieking growing stronger as his lyrium begins to fail.

                “I am _so sorry_ , my friend,” he tells her, his face buried in her hair, tears streaming down his face. “And I forgive you.”

                The lyrium in his skin flickers out, and the buzzing in his ears that signifies Fenris’ weakness begins. He closes his eyes and braces for— _whatever_ is coming, hoping to at least shield her a little, protect his friend one last time.

                But nothing comes. Only the sound of the wind in trees somewhere far above his head.

                Fenris looks up, frowning—he sees only a room, as overgrown as any of those he has passed through to get here. He’s kneeling in a sunbeam, in light filtered gold and green through the leaves far above, and a number of birds flit through the opening, as pleased as can be.

                In his arms, Evanura Lavellan gasps for air, as if emerging from water.

                He’s still clutching her tight, and she fights his grip for half a heartbeat before she realises who he is.

                “ _Lethallin_?” she asks, her voice weak.

                She sits up as Fenris steadies her. Her green eyes are—wide, wild, darting around her. She spots Danarius’ corpse, and stares at it disbelieving for a moment.

                “Evanura,” he says. “Are you alright?”

                She looks back at Fenris, reaches up to touch his cheek and the wetness there.

                “You _know_ ,” she whispers. “You’re _here_ , and you _know_.”

                He is surprised to find himself smiling—crooked, a little bashful for his tears, but smiling nonetheless.

                Something breaks in her expression, then, and _she_ begins to cry in earnest. She throws her arms around his neck, buries her face in his shoulder and such an uncharacteristically _loud_ sob breaks from her that Fenris is too startled to respond, at first. But he wraps his arms around her and holds her there regardless, still smiling, a relief he can’t describe filling him up.

                “ _Ir abelas, lethallin,_ I’m so _sorry_ ,” she sobs, over and over, and he forgives her each and every time.

                It isn’t long before the doors behind them open with a grind of stone upon ancient stone. Fenris half-turns, Evanura peeks up from his shoulder, and they find the others— _all_ of them, those they left behind to fight Danarius’ mercenaries and the Venatori looking battered and bleeding from several new places but whole, hale, alive.

                Abelas stands at the front, his expression unreadable.

                “ _Nadas’lin_ ,” Evanura says through her sobs.

                Fenris blinks, there is a Fade Step somewhere, he thinks—too exhausted to track it—and then Evanura is lifted directly out of his arms and into the ancient sentinel’s. He holds her impossibly tight, and _he_ is sobbing too, tears streaming down his face as he kisses her—greedily, hungrily, and she kisses him back as if she never needs to breathe again.

                It doesn’t stop until Cole says, _“Asa’ma’lin_ , Merrill needs you too.”

                Abelas sets Evanura down, and then Merrill is on her in a blur of tangled limbs and broken elven. Evanura almost topples, but Abelas steadies her, and Fenris thinks there is too much crying going on, so he rubs his own eyes with the back of his arm to hide the evidence.

                One by one, their strange group of assorted friends filters in, and as Cole dries Evanura’s eyes with the sleeve of his sweater Abelas offers Fenris a hand up.

                Fenris stares at it.

                “I suppose,” the ancient elf says, flatly, “you are capable of following _some_ instruction.”

                Fenris doesn’t have it in him to get riled up by the comment. He takes the offered hand and stands—teetering, exhausted.

                Hawke catches his arm and slings it over her shoulders.

                “Bullshit,” Hawke says. “I think I told you _not_ to walk through the judgement door.”

                Fenris scratches the back of his neck, where the spent lyrium itches the worst. It will _hurt_ later, so he will take the dull itch while he can. “I believe you did.”

                “So there we go. You’re terrible at following instructions.” She tilts her head to the side, smiling. “But it all worked out in the end, so I suppose I can forgive you.”

                He smiles back at her. “Then I suppose I might forgive you for vanishing again.”

                She balks in mock-offense. “ _Again_ , he says! Like I’ve suddenly made a habit of falling into pits!”

                Fenris laughs, louder than he means to. He turns his head to the doorway, and his smile fades when he sees Solas, lingering in the shadow cast by what’s left of the ceiling. On the cusp of entering or leaving, he doesn’t seem sure.

                Then the sentinels begin to pour in—some of them reluctantly, others with nearly as much open glee as Merrill. The woman who had spoken to let them through is the first, and she wraps Evanura in a protective bear hug _seconds_ before they are both immediately smothered. They knock foreheads and elbows, and Fenris recognises Evanura’s cursing through it all, and they all try to speak at once in Elven.

                Through the crowd, Fenris loses sight of Solas. When the door is cleared, the old elf has vanished without a trace.

                “Hawke,” he says, surprising himself with the urgency of it.

                “On it,” she replies, and Fenris feels the Fade Step form around them.

                They catch up to Solas somewhere in the rooms with the tiles—he is standing there, as if waiting for them, his gaze turned up to the sky. The sunlight is beginning to turn orange, marking the very beginnings of the setting sun.

                “Running away again?” Fenris accuses, and Solas starts—he must have been so lost in thought he hadn’t heard them coming.

                “I will trouble Evanura no further,” he says, folding his arms behind his back as he faces them. “She is safe, and I cannot express the gratitude I feel for that. I owe you...” He closes his eyes. “Everything.”

                “But you’re still leaving,” Hawke says.

                “I must now search for her mother, before she is lost forever.”

                “Yeah.” Hawke blows a curl of her hair out of her eyes. “Look, Solas—I mean this in the best way possible. Get your ass back there and talk to your fucking kid.”

                Fenris, still leaning on Hawke for support, turns to look at her, incredulous.

                Solas’ expression is just as shocked.

                “I spent three goddamn months hallucinating about you two _not_ talking to each other,” she continues. “I am _not_ going to stand here and let you fuck this up all over again.”

                Solas opens his mouth, then seems to think better of it and closes it again. Fenris is surprised to see him _smile_ , of all things.

                “I should have expected such a treatment,” he says, “considering a spirit of Love was so determined to stick with you.”

                Hawke makes a small _hmph_ noise, but does not respond.

                Solas ducks his head—something like assent, something like respect, and he starts to walk the way they came, back into the heart of the temple.

                “Seriously though,” Hawke says, when Solas is out of sight, “fuck that guy.”

                Fenris laughs again—even louder, even though the lyrium begins to pain and it ends in a curse, ends with him doubling over, and Hawke lowering him to a collapsed stone wall.

                He waves off her concern. “This is— _normal_ ,” he manages, gritting his teeth. “It will pass.”

                She sits next to him, and she does not let go of his hand.

                They say nothing for a time, watching brilliant reds begin to stretch across the sky to the west.

                “You alright?” Hawke asks, gently, leaning her head on his shoulder.

                He hisses in pain when her makes contact with the sensitive lyrium under his shirt.

                “Sorry!” she exclaims jerking away. “Sorry! Oh shit, I’m the literal worst, I forgot...”

                But he’s laughing again—that’s the third time, some part of him thinks. This one is low and soft, and not without pain as the lyrium begins pulling energy from the air around him.

                “I’m—I’m fine,” he tells her. And then, because it’s the truth, he adds, “I’m—better than I have been in a long time.”

                He admires her smile instead of the sky. Danarius’ end is still raw in his mind, and all the things he witnessed again before it. But with Hawke smiling at him, holding his hand, he feels even the pain of the lyrium a little less, and his past finally feels as if it is long behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's funny because I tricked you all into reading a Power of Friendship fic :D
> 
> Also when I said I only had the one more revelation to give, apparently I lied. I forgot about Cole being a magnificent bastard.
> 
> And we've only got one or two more chapters left! Haven't decided how/if I'm going to break up what's left to write.
> 
> You may all stop dying now.


	50. I Am Yours

“I’m giving him _space_ , Varric,” Hawke says, her cell phone cradled between her shoulder and her ear while she roots through her fridge.

                “ _Space_ ,” Varric parrots with an air of the dramatic re-enactments on Fereldan channels. “Hawke, it’s been two goddamn weeks.”

                “Two goddamn weeks since all the horrifying trauma over the last eight or so years of his life was rehashed in front of his face, not to mention his entire life being turned upside down by the revelation that his roommate is one hundred and three years old and met him when he was four.” Hawke emerges from the fridge with the last beer and half of a sandwich, poorly wrapped. She frowns at it a moment as she kicks the fridge door closed behind her. “Carver,” she yells, “Did you eat my sandwich?”

                “Ouch,” Varric complains, obviously pulling his phone away from his ear. “Take the phone _away_ from the mouth before yelling at Junior next time, please.”

                Hawke drops the sandwich on the counter and retrieves her phone, which is rapidly slipping out of her precarious hold on it. “Carver!” she yells again, louder, as she puts her beer on the counter and starts to dig around for a bottle opener in the drawers.

                Carver _finally_ answers from the other room “You yelling?”

                “What a tit,” Hawke mutters under her breath, affectionately.

                “Runs in the family,” Varric quips. “Now, back to you and Broody...”

                “There is nothing to _be_ back to!” Hawke protests. “Where’d he put that fucking thing... Carver! Fenris and I are—taking it slow. Whatever it is.”

                “Does _slow_ mean the most disgusting bedroom eyes being directed across the table last night? For the _entire_ night? I nearly vomited.”

                “Oh, _those_ weren’t bedroom eyes.”

                “Hawke, even _Merrill_ was calling them bedroom eyes.”

                “Trust me,” Hawke says, “if Fenris had been giving me bedroom eyes over the table, I would have done so many filthy things to him on it, in front of everyone, that we’d have to burn down the building after.”

                “Then what were they?”

                Hawke pauses to consider. “Something suspiciously like bedroom eyes but slightly different in a way I will explain to you as soon as I figure it out.”

                “Admit it, you chickened out.”

                “I will _not_ admit that I may have not known how many beers he drank and therefore didn’t want to take advantage of him. No matter how badly I wanted to pin him to the table, lick him from the tips of his ears all the way down to his toes and then ride him like a pony until he made a pretty light show on the walls.”

                “That,” says Carver, swooping in from the other room, “is disgusting, and I never want to hear you say it again.”

                Hawke holds the poorly wrapped sandwich half in the air, accusingly.

                “I was hungry!” he protests. He snatches Hawke’s beer off the counter, only to scowl when he realises she hasn’t uncapped it yet. “It’s not my fault you never buy groceries,” he grumbles, digging in his pockets for his keys.

                Hawke slides her beer back to herself, drumming her fingers on the bottle. “Varric, I don’t know why you insist on giving _me_ grief about this. You know where I stand on the matter of Fenris getting in my pants— _I_ am waiting for a sign so I don’t make a giant ass out of myself again.”

                “Ever heard of divide and conquer?”

                “You’re starting to sound like Carver and his videogames.”

                “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Carver fishes the bottle out of her hands and opens it with a bottle opener on his keys.

                Hawke shocks him in the back with a spark of lightning and steals the beer back as he yelps.

                “I call you and give you hell about the whole thing, while Bluebird does whatever weird shit she and Broody get up to in their apartment and she works her magic on him.”

                “I’m pretty sure they just hang out. And work opposite shifts.”

                “Hey look,” Carver says, nodding to the news she’s left on. “You’re on TV.”

                “And she doesn’t—what, _again_?”

                As she whips her head to the TV mounted over the fireplace, Carver steals the beer from her hand.

                “Hey!”

                “No magic,” he says, holding it as high above her head as he can. “That’s cheating.”

                “So is using your noodle arms!”

                In the background, the TV is playing the footage that news helicopter took of Hawke fighting the Pride demon in front of the rift on loop while the newscaster speaks over top.

              “Listen!” he says, reaching for the remote and dodging another spark from her fingers. “They’re talking about you!”

                “... _rumours are surfacing that the individual captured on film here is not, in fact, a circle sanctioned mage, but a rogue apostate. This has not deterred the general public from referring to the mage as the Champion of Kirkwall.”_

                Hawke stops trying to singe Carver’s hair off and blinks up at the TV. “Seriously? From what, a twenty-second clip?”

                “ _Police report that a large group of unknown individuals have repeatedly tried to pile garbage in the square where the rift opened. Some sources say that they are attempting to build a monument to the person they believe is Kirkwall’s new Champion.”_

Carver says, “Didn’t Athenril used to call you Champion? Like, ironically?”

                “Like you even know what that means. Varric, did you know about this?”

                “Yeah,” the dwarf answers, sounding a little put off at being ignored in favour of a sibling spat. “It’s all Blondie’s talked about for _days._ Going on about mage rights and how this is a huge step or something... I think Daisy’s the one who started the statue nonsense, but I’m pretty sure Sparkler put her up to it. But we were talking about _you_ and _Broody_ , which has nothing to do with how you’re sort of famous now. Infamous?”

                “You can’t even see my face in that clip,” Hawke says. She lights the sleeve of Carver’s shirt on fire, and steals the bottle of beer back when he screams like a little girl.

                Barkspawn—lying on top of a vent to take advantage of the A/C—suddenly perks up. His ears shoot up and he rolls over with a curious whine.

                The doorbell rings, and Hawke puts her beer on the counter without thinking about it.

                “Yeah, too grainy,” Varric agrees absently as Hawke walks down the hallway to the front door, stumbling around her barking and ridiculously bouncing warhound. “You expecting someone?”

                “No,” she says. “Down, boy!”

                “All I’m saying is, _maybe_ Fenris wanted to pin you to the table, too, and he was just waiting for _you_ to say something.”

                “I have!” Hawke says. “Down! Down! Sit! Stay! Varric, trust me, it’s out of my hands now, I can’t rush this no matter how many times you call—”

                She opens the door, her dog finally under control, and Fenris is standing there.

                She doesn’t quite realise she’s standing there gaping at him until she hears Varric say, “Hawke?” on the other end.

                “Fenris,” she blurts, and she scrambles to hang up her phone. She crams it into her back pocket without checking to see if the call has ended. “Fenris, what are you—”

                “Hawke,” he says, quickly, like he’ll lose his courage if he doesn’t, “I am yours.”

                She _blinks,_ and she feels very warm all over, even if she doesn’t quite know how to react. It quickly becomes apparent he’s got a whole speech prepared, because he’s saying some other things—things that are really nice, things like _I was an idiot_ and _I was scared_ and _if you’ll give me another chance_ , and for a second Hawke thinks she’s trapped in one of Love’s strange hallucinations.

                She grabs the front of Fenris’ shirt and yanks him through the doorway.

                She makes the mistake of kissing him before saying anything herself—she tries to break it off and make a few romantic statements of her own, but all she manages to get out is “Fenris,” before his lips are on hers, hot and fierce, and he’s kissing her like a dying man. His hands move down to pass over her ass, grab at her thighs, and Hawke wraps her legs around his waist and lets him carry her, lets him take her wherever he wants to go. She hears her phone clatter to the floor, and she throws her arms around Fenris’ shoulders and figures that she’ll find it later.

                Fenris has to stumble around the dog, and he breathes little huffs of laughter into her mouth that she tries to devour. She doesn’t pay much attention after that, expecting Fenris to shove her up against the fireplace. But he starts climbing the stairs—deliberately, she thinks, and she digs her nails into his shoulder and she starts pressing hungry kisses to the lyrium curling under his lips.

                He pauses once they’re in her room, pulling back from her. She realises that he’s sending a quizzical look to her bed—just the boxspring on the frame, the mattress still on the floor where he’d shoved it two weeks ago.

                “Yeah,” Hawke says, embarrassed. “I uh, meant to get to that.”

                But he laughs, low and deep in his throat, and there is something so _warm_ and _intent_ in his eyes that meeting his gaze makes her stomach do little flips.

                It might be the exact look he was giving her last night, over his playing cards and across the table.

                He walks around the bed and deposits her on the mattress. He leans over her, kissing her again—this time slower, no less forceful but with a patience Hawke isn’t really _feeling_. His kisses move down to her neck with such adoration, such _wasted time_ that Hawke finds her hands roaming all over his chest, following lines of lyrium down, down—

                Fenris catches her hands in his at the buckle of his belt with a smile. She whines in frustration and tries to pull them out of his grip, but he doesn’t relent.

                Three times, Hawke manages to pull her hands from his. The third time she actually manages a hand up the inside of his shirt, her fingertips finding the winding lyrium there and tracing them with feather-light touches that make them hum and glow.

                This time, when he catches her wandering fingers, he curses, holds both her wrists in one hand and uses his teeth to untie the bandanna from his wrist. Hawke stares up at him as he ties her wrists to the bedpost just above her head, and when he’s knotted it gently in place he stops, leans a little back from her, and gets a puzzled expression on his face.

                _Love_ , Hawke thinks, and she laughs and pulls herself up the short distance to kiss him.

                “You look like you have a plan in mind, Fenris,” she says, rolling her hips suggestively.

                He huffs, leaning back just to stare at her for a long moment. He smiles, slowly, and he leans down to press a firm, warm kiss to her lips, to her chin, to her throat.

                “Marian,” he whispers against her skin.

                Hawke swallows, heat rising to her cheeks and pooling between her legs. “Maybe you wanted to take my shirt off _before_ you tied me up?”

                Fenris stills.

                “ _Fastevas_ ,” he curses, and Hawke _laughs_.

               

Downstairs, Carver gives the still-untouched beer he’d been about to drink a long, wistful look, his sister’s delighted laughter and her elven lover’s rumbling... _something_ coming from the floor above him.

                “Come on boy,” he says to the dog, leaving the drink on the counter. “We’re going for a... _long_ car ride.”

                He only pauses long enough on his way out the door to look down at his sister’s phone on the floor, where he can hear Varric Tethras and Dorian Pavus arguing about who owes who what on the other end. He smirks and stoops down to press _end call_ , and then he leaves the phone where it lies.

 

_New Message from Varric Tethras_

-{ You’re welcome

-{ Also your dog is starting to stink up my apartment

-{ Not to mention your brother has eaten everything  
    in my fridge

-{ It’s been two days are you two done yet

-{ Hawke?

                -{ Keep him

                -{ We’re busy

-{ You are both so disgusting

                -{ Well right now we’re watching a really terrible disaster  
                   movie and eating a pint of ice cream

                -{ But after that we’re probably going to go back to being  
                  carnal, disgusting heathens who can’t keep their hands  
                  off each other

-{ This is ridiculous

-{ I’m kicking Carver out, put some pants on

_Email money transfer sent_

-{ Is this a bribe?

                -{ Yep

-{ I’m giving you until Friday

                -{ You’re the best

 

There is only the sound of water trickling over stone, wind caressing leaves far above, as Evanura Lavellan sits next to her mother on the stone altar.

                “She’s cold,” she whispers as she takes up the old woman’s hand in her own. “She’s— _older_ than last time.”

                Solas, standing nearby, lets out a breath so slow and drawn out she can only call it _reluctant_.

                “Yes,” he agrees, so quietly she barely hears him.

                Evanura feels that if she clings too tightly to her mother’s hands, they will break. She is so thin, so frail, lying there on the stone, and Evanura watches her chest fall, _so slightly_ , the breath taken so light and weak that there is barely anything to let go.

                She watches, heart in her throat, until the next breath is taken. Just as weak as the last.

                “How long does she have?” she asks. As if time means anything to her or to Solas—she has an eternity to give at her mother’s deathbed, if she wishes it.

                Solas doesn’t respond immediately, and Evanura looks at him out of the corner of her eye. There is something... forlorn in his expression, in the twist of his lips as he looks between Evanura and her mother.

                “I do not know,” he answers. “I—I have searched the Fade for her, but what fragment of her spirit I could still feel in the realm of Nightmare has vanished.”

                Evanura puts her mother’s hand down. She leans forward to touch her hair—shock white, but soft. It has been trimmed and cleaned on a regular basis, like her nails, and Evanura gathers it between her fingers without really understanding what she wants to do. She hums an old Dalish lullaby while she begins a complicated braid, her hands shaking. Her brows furrow as she tries to remember the order of it, the old story about winding rivers that inspired it—

                She doesn’t quite get it right. It falls apart, and Evanura settles for something simpler.

                “How have your dreams been?” Solas asks her when she is finished.

                She leans back to run her left hand through her hair. “Fine,” she tells him, curtly.

                His eyes flick down. “Ah,” he says, softly. “I had hoped...”

                His voice trails off, uselessly, and Evanura tries to ignore the twist of guilt in her heart.

                “I’m just having the normal sort of nightmares, now,” she elaborates, a little gentler. “Making friends with a very repetitive Despair demon. That sort of thing.”

                He’s still not quite looking at her, and she thinks of how he used to speak of the Fade and what he found there. The way his eyes lit up with such unabashed _delight_ when she asked, how... _hopeful_ he’d appeared, when she allowed him into her dream for the first time.

                “Love shows up, sometimes.” She tilts her head to the side, tries to pretend not to notice how his eyes dart up to look at her once again. “Mostly to pester me about Fenris and Hawke. I think it’s obsessed.”

                “Singularly focused, perhaps,” he agrees. Smiling now—like he used to. When things were simple between them.

                Her hand cups the curve of her mother’s face.

                “I don’t understand,” she says. The words are thick in her mouth, heavy with guilt.

                Either Solas follows the leap in her thoughts, or he has been waiting for her to bring it up. He does not looks surprised by the turn in their conversation, and he does not ask for clarification. He waits, arms folded behind his back. His eyes soft as he watches her.

                “I was supposed to die,” she finishes, quietly. “By Mythal’s hand.”

                “There is,” Solas says, slowly, “very little left of Mythal in that place.”

                That’s an old wound—it doesn’t hurt as much as it should, but she does stiffen at the reminder.

                He pretends not to notice, just as she pretends not to notice the subtle hesitation in his voice as he continues. “Her wrath was properly invoked by those seeking vengeance.”

                “I asked for it,” she says. “I knelt and begged for her Judgement, for her to claim Vengeance upon my soul.”

                Solas inclines his head. “And then the room allowed a witness to enter.”

                _Lethallin_ , she thinks. She closes her eyes.

                “I can’t believe you let them come.”

                His answer is solemn. “I could not have stopped them.”

                “Would not.”

                She opens her eyes to stare at him, accusingly, only to find him smiling.

                “In this instance, they are the same.”

                She scoffs at him.

                “He forgave you,” Solas says, softly, “didn’t he?”

                Even hearing it from _Solas_ , of all people, she can’t quite believe it. She brushes hair away from her mother’s closed eyelids, disturbed by the gentle wind, and wishes for a brush to keep her hands busy.

                “What makes you say that?”

                He hums, thoughtfully, and it sounds so _kind_ and _understanding_ that something in her heart twists. Something like _affection_ , borderline _familial_ , and she’s still not sure what to do with it.

                “The one you’d proclaimed as your greatest victim had no desire for Vengeance against you; when he forgave you, the fragment of Mythal that lingers in the temple had no power over you.” His eyes flick from Evanura to her mother, where she toys with the sleeping woman’s hair. “Have you not spoken with him about it?”

                “A little. We’ve been so— _busy_.” She lets out a breath of air that’s a little like a huff, a little like laughter. “Well by all accounts he’s been at Hawke’s place for the last three days, so we haven’t spoken _lately._ ”

                He chuckles, soft and low, and it surprises her to think he’s grown fond of her friends in such a short time. “You have a positive report to make to Love, I presume?”

                She _does_ laugh at that, and it’s easier than she would have thought.

                “Love hasn’t come back in a while,” she tells him—and it feels like she’s admitting that she’s worried, a little. “Said it was looking for something. That it was needed.”

                “I would not worry,” he tells her. He does not try to hide the affection in his words. “It will return.”

                She raises a brow at him.

                He shrugs, as if it is obvious. “Spirits of Love are notoriously determined; they are twisted into Obsession as often as Desire.”

                There is movement from the entrance, the rustle of clothing and scuff of a leather-bound foot on the stone. Evanura turns, and Abelas is standing there, his arms crossed over his chest.

                “ _Da’sahlin_ ,” he says, the tone of his voice matching the softness in his eyes. “We should be leaving soon, if we’re to arrive by nightfall.”

                She nods. “Yeah—just... a minute. Please.”

                He inclines his head, smiling a little. He looks over her shoulder at Solas, and something passes between them that she pretends not to notice—they both seem to be posturing, of all things, and it takes all her willpower not to sigh dramatically and roll her eyes.

                Abelas hovers, and she finds she can’t keep her hands still—she adjusts her mother’s leathers, which have lost the smell of their long-dead clan but still feel precisely like they used to. She takes the tie out of her own hair and finishes off the braid that’s been slipping loose—lets it fall over one shoulder. She always remembers her mother’s hair as red, and the white is jarring against her fragile memory from her childhood—she wonders if she could figure out the right plants, given enough time. Somehow a boxed dye wouldn’t feel right.

                “If anything happens...”

                “I will call,” Solas says.

                Evanura leans forward and presses her lips to her mother’s forehead. She closes her eyes and _breathes_ —a single, shuddering breath.

                She stands and goes to follow Abelas, but hesitates in the passageway. She turns, in the shadow of the ruins, and watches as Solas bends over her mother to touch the braid Evanura has left of her hair. To run his hand over the spot Evanura kissed her—to sit beside her and hold her hand, to watch her face.

                Evanura watches the slow, gentle rise and fall of her mother’s chest, expecting each to be the last.

                “You could have carried on with your plans if you’d just killed her, you know,” she tells him.

                He looks up, startled. Expecting her to be gone. There’s something in his eyes she can’t read. Some part of her wonders; _can’t, or won’t?_

                “I know,” is all he says, and she can _almost_ hear everything he doesn’t say, weighing down the words that pass through his lips.

 

Hawke’s family cabin hasn’t been for her blood family for a long time, now.

                Oh sure, Carver’s there on the beach with them, crammed in between Bull and Varric, easy smiles shared between all three of them. He belongs here as much as any of them, elbows tucked in and a plastic plate in hand as they all eagerly wait for the wild boar Evanura shot to finally be done.

                “Oh this is _so much better_ than the domestic ones!” Merrill’s saying, and Hawke doesn’t think she’s ever seen _anyone’s_ eyes go that wide as the Dalish woman leans in with a brush to baste the pig. “I haven’t had one in _years_.”

                “You’re drooling, kitten,” Isabela teases, leaning over Merrill’s shoulders and planting a kiss on her neck.

                “Yes I’m sure we’ll all agree, once we are allowed to taste it,” Dorian grumbles, and looks like he’s about to complain further but Bull puts a hand on his knee, gently. The Tevinter sighs rather dramatically, although it fails to hide the little smile under his moustache, and he turns to Anders, to continue their discussion on advanced magical theory that is sure to make Hawke’s head spin, if she tries to listen.

                “You don’t like dead people, Cassandra,” Cole is saying, and Cassandra gives him a perplexed look for a moment before she seems to realise what he’s talking about.

                “The Grand Necropolis,” she offers. “I never saw the point.”

                “Light pastry with blueberries, sticky on your fingers. Small hands reaching as Anthony tears his in half.” He pauses. “But pastry is patience, waiting and watching, so you chose something else. He would be proud of you.”

                Evanura and Abelas are sitting together—Abelas is asking her questions about his phone, and she laughs as she tries to explain a function.

                “I understand that there is a camera on the front as well,” he’s saying, his voice growing louder as he tries to ignore her giggling. “I just do not see the _point_ of that feature.”

                “So you can take selfies!” she tells him.

                “What is a selfie and why—”

                She leans in and whispers something into his long ear, and Hawke smiles at the bright red blush that crawls up his impassive face.

                “I see,” is all he says, and Evanura _laughs_.

                No, the Amell family cabin was never much of a cabin—too big, for one. And it was never really Hawke’s style—a white picket fence, a big gate with a buzzer and a long winding road. She has never been an Amell, not ever—maybe Bethany was, maybe Carver could have been. She is Malcolm’s daughter, through and through, and although she has adapted to the lap of luxury she has never truly felt _herself_ in it until her friends showed up at her mother’s childhood home to decorate it for Satinalia, when they cooked every scrap of food in her fridge after her mother’s death.

                And now the cabin doesn’t feel ridiculous, doesn’t feel like too much. All the rooms are full to bursting, and the kitchen is actually _too small_ for all of them. She watches them bicker and tease one another, complain and laugh, and she rests her head on Fenris’ shoulder.

                He reaches for her hand, not pausing in his conversation with Isabela. Their fingers twine, and she kisses the curve of his jaw where it meets his neck, delighting in the rumble of his voice beneath his skin.

                _I am yours_ , she thinks, _you are mine and I am yours_. Giddy in her own mind, with her own hammering heart. Then, with a private smirk; _Suck it, Nightmare_.

                Her reverie is broken by the sound of a ringtone and a buzzing phone.

                “Shit,” Evanura says, scrambling for her back pocket. “That’s—that’s me. I thought I turned—”

                Hawke is about to tease her, opens her mouth to say _No phones while camping_ , but Evanura’s eyes go so wide when she sees the call display that the words die on Hawke’s lips.

                Fenris’ hand tightens around hers.

                “Solas?” Evanura says into her phone as she stands, walks over the driftwood they’re using to sit on and a little up the beach. “What’s wrong? Is it—?”

                No one says a thing. Hawke bites her lip and shares a knowing look with Carver as she stands, dropping Fenris’ hand. She follows Evanura, the soft impression of her footsteps in the sand, until the elf stops dead in her tracks.

                Hawke waits at what she hopes is a respectful distance.

                “Say what you _mean_ ,” she says, “Stop being so fucking cryptic for once in your—”

                The only sound is the waves lapping at Hawke’s feet, but she think she can make out a muffled and _feminine_ voice coming through the speaker of Evanura’s phone.

                “ _Mamae_?” Evanura says, so softly. “ _Na threnem.”_

                The person on the other end says something, choking on sobs, and Evanura falls to her knees, spouting elven Hawke can’t possibly keep up with. Hawke stumbles forward, as if to catch her, but Evanura kneels in the sand, laughing, sobbing, a hand at her heart.

                She doesn’t react to Hawke’s gentle hand on her shoulder, initially. But she _does_ look up after a short while, after she stops _babbling_ just to catch her breath. She looks up at Hawke with wide eyes, pupils gleaming in what light reaches them from the fire, the dark curls of her hair catching the firelight like Bethany’s used to, on all those old camping trips.

                “She’s awake,” Evanura says. “She’s awake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit team here we are seven goddamn months later.
> 
> I didn't quite know what I was getting myself into when I started this; I wrote three chapters trying to rush through this whole thing before I realised that this story was going to be a long one, sucked it up, and rewrote what was chapter 3 into chapters 3 through 8. And I don't really regret it, to be quite honest with you.
> 
> Eternal thanks to Actually_Fen_Harel for beta work, even if I've been too impatient to wait for it in the last few chapters, and for always being willing to talk about elven gods and how differently we view them. And our dogs.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented, left kudos or liked on tumblr. I had so many people commenting on almost every chapter that I feel very loved, very honoured to have shared this story with you all. You all have my love and eternal devotion for joining me on this ridiculous ride of an AU.
> 
> Please feel free to message me any time on tumblr (either on [playwithdinos](http://playwithdinos.tumblr.com/) or [dinoswrites](http://dinoswrites.tumblr.com/) \- I respond to asks on both). I love to talk fandom junk, story junk, pretty much anything at all. I'm always taking prompts, even if I take forever to actually write them. Don't be shy!


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